


Exodus

by keepcalmsmile



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, Boy King of Hell Sam Winchester, F/M, Gen, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt Sam Winchester, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Non-Sexual Slavery, READ ALL THE TAGS, Sam Winchester on Demon Blood, Slave Sam Winchester, THIS IS NOT A SEXY FIC
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-05
Updated: 2020-02-04
Packaged: 2020-02-26 00:59:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 14
Words: 57,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18713260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keepcalmsmile/pseuds/keepcalmsmile
Summary: Since the first demon raids of the 1970s, everyone agrees on three things:1. Demons are humanity's greatest threat.2. Demons can only possess willing hosts.3. The children of possessed hosts aren't human, but they do turn a profit.It takes Dean Winchester a long time to change his mind.





	1. Prologue

_**The New York Times** _

**Monday, June 3 rd 1973**

**Massacre In New Mexico: At Least 1000 Dead**

_Sarasota Springs, New Mexico:_ At least a thousand people are dead after a hoard of what dozens of eye-witnesses called “black-eyed monsters” swept through the town of just 2,000 people Monday night.

Witnesses claim that the attackers—all long-time residents—carried out the attack with household objects including kitchen knives, hammers, and often their bare hands.

“Not one of them used a gun,” Howard Newton, who watched his sister murder her husband and three children, “She just ripped them apart. And guns don’t work on them either. I pumped her full of lead, and she just laughed with those black eyes. She wasn’t human no more.”

Two hours after the first 911 call, the killings stopped. Multiple witnesses claim that the attackers collapsed to the ground, black smoke billowing from their mouths.

“I am a stone-cold sober, life-long atheist,” Angela Maloney told the Times, “But those people weren’t human anymore. I swear on my grandmother’s Bible that those things came straight from hell.”

 

_**The Wall Street Journal** _

**Wednesday, June 5 th 1973**

**“Demon” Rampages Continue: Death Toll Over 8000**

Over 8000 people in 12 States have been killed by black-eyed attackers many are simply calling “demons.”

In every case, the perpetrators have been average citizens whose eyes turned jet-black moments before killing those around them—often family members and friends. After killing as many as 50 people with little more than their hands, the perpetrator would collapse, black smoke ejecting from their bodies.

All perpetrators have been taken into custody, but authorities refuse to provide details on possible motives.

 

_**The Evangelical Times** _

**Wednesday, June 5 th, 1973**

**THE END OF DAYS**

There can be no doubt now, demons walk with their heads high on this Earth. Mothers killing children. Sons killing fathers. Wives killing husbands. The wicked rush to churches, begging for forgiveness from a God they mocked just a week ago. The End Has Come.

 

_**The Washington Post** _

**Thursday, June 6 th, 1973**

**Holy Water and Salt Stop Black-Eyed Attackers**

Black-Eyed Attackers cannot cross salt lines, and holy water burns them. Hundreds of witnesses, most of whom refer to themselves as “hunters” have approached authorities, news outlets, and religious leaders with information on how to defend against the attackers they unanimously refer to as “demons.”

 

_**The New York Times** _

**Monday, June 12 th, 1973**

**President Nixon Confirms Existence of Demons**

_**The Wall Street Journal** _

**Monday, June 12 th, 1973**

**DEMONS ARE REAL**

_**The Washington Post** _

**Monday, June 12 th, 1973**

**Nixon: “The Armies of Hell Are at War With The American People”**

_**The New York Times** _

**Monday, June 19 th, 1973**

**10,000 Dead as Demon Attacks Finally Decrease**

FBI Director says decrease due to administration’s swift confirmation of existence of demons as well as “swift and merciless response of our law enforcement officers, National Guard, and armed forces.”

_**The Wall Street Journal** _

**Monday, June 27 th, 1973**

**No Demon-Related Deaths on Sunday**

Authorities warn civilians to remain cautious.

_**The New York Times** _

**Monday, June 28 th, 1973**

**Demon Hosts Consented to Possession**

_Washington, DC:_ The FBI has confirmed that every demonic host consented to possession.

“We can say with certainly,” the FBI said in an official statement, “That all demonic hosts consented to possession and that it is impossible for demons to possess an unwilling host.”

“The essentially sold their souls,” said Ryan Yates, FBI Director, “A demon approached them. Offered them money, sex, cars, anything, if they agreed to be possessed.”

 

_**The Washington Post** _

**Monday, June 28 th, 1973**

**They Knew What They Were Doing**

The FBI confirmed early Sunday morning that every demon host agreed to be possessed.

“They knew what they were signing up for,” said Anthony Hardy, White House Press Secretary, “They might not have known all the specifics. But they knew these things were from hell, and they definitely knew the demons were going to use their bodies to kill people.”

 

_**The Wall Street Journal** _

**Sunday, July 4 th, 1973**

**Nixon: “Today We Declare Independence from Supernatural Tyranny”**

In a televised address to the country, President Nixon declared his intention to fight the new demonic threat, “Until the devil himself cowers in the deepest pits of hell.”

The President also announced the formation of “The Department of Supernatural Containment,” which will lead official efforts to combat the demonic threat. The Department will be staffed primarily by “hunters,” experts on the Supernatural who had previously lived on the fringes of American life, hunting the monsters most of us thought were just nightmares.  

 

_**The New York Times** _

**Wednesday, August 1 st, 1973**

**All Female Demon Hosts Were Pregnant Before Their Possession**

Multiple officials at both the FBI and The Department of Supernatural Containment have confirmed that all female demon hosts to date were pregnant before their possession.

“It’s clear the demons wanted to do something with the unborn children,” said Emily Campbell, Assistant Director of the Department of Supernatural Containment. “We do not know what that was or if they accomplished their goal.”

 

_**Washington Post** _

**Friday, August 3 rd, 1973**

**Debate Rages Over the Fate of “Demon-Children”**

The country is locked in a furious debate over the fate of the unborn children of female demonic hosts. Many argue the safest course of action is to terminate all the pregnancies. “We know the demons wanted the babies,” Barbara Perry, a secretary from Seattle, Washington told The Post, “Let’s send the things straight to hell before they try to kill us too!”

Others believe the lives of the unborn children should be taken into account, “Children should not be punished for the sins of their mothers,” said Gloria Fairchild, a stay-at-home mother in Atlanta. 

 

_**The Wall Street Journal** _

**Friday, August 10 th, 1973**

**Demon Children Will Be Born but Raised in Confinement**

The Department of Supernatural Containment announced that the children of pregnant demon hosts will be born but raised in confinement.

“All supernatural records that we have consulted indicate that these ‘children’ will not be human,” Emily Campbell, Vice Director of the Department said at the Press Conference announcing the decision, “But it is essential that we understand the potential threat these unborn children pose, as we must assume demons are still actively attempting to possess pregnant women.”

The decision was met with widespread support from both parties, though some children’s rights activists raised concerns over the potential living conditions of the unborn children.

 

_**The New York Times** _

**Thursday, September 1 st, 1973**

**First Demon Child Born: Blood Contains Sulfur**

The Department of Supernatural Containment (DSC) announced the birth of the first “demon child,” the child of a woman who was possessed by a demon during pregnancy, and evidence already suggests these children are genetically distinct from humans.

“There’s sulfur in the baby’s blood,” Emily Campbell, Vice Director of the DSC said, “Which means it isn’t human. Sulfur is one of the primary indicators of a demonic presence. We will continue our observations and keep the child, and future children, in neutral environments to determine their fundamental natures, but all current indicators suggest we have some type of demon hybrid on our hands.”

 

_**The Washington Post** _

**Sunday, September 1 st, 1976**

Demon Children Less Empathetic, Independent, and Intelligent

Three years after the birth of the first “demon child,” The Department of Supernatural Containment (DSC) released its first report on the cognitive, emotional, and physical development of demon-human hybrids when compared to fully human children.

“Physically, hybrid and human children are nearly identical,” the report said, “Hybrids have no demonic abilities. They do not react to holy water or salt. Their eyes do not turn black. They do not have super-human strength.”

“However, the cognitive and emotional differences are staggering. Hybrid children display only half the cognitive ability of human children. Even more concerning, hybrids are 70% less empathetic than their human counterparts and display only a third of a human child’s independence.”

“Hybrids seem hardwired to obey,” the report concludes, “Not only do they lack the cognitive ability to form complex thoughts, they also lack the emotional capacity to distinguish between right and wrong and the independence to question decisions made by someone they consider superior.”

Over 1,000 hybrids were born over the past 3 years, with ages ranging from 3 years to 2 weeks.  

 

_**The New York Times** _

**Tuesday, September 3 rd, 1976**

**Congress Debates Fate of Hybrids**

Members of both Houses of Congress engaged in furious debates over the fate of current and future hybrids after the bombshell Department of Supernatural Containment report saying that hybrids lacked the cognitive and emotional capabilities of humans.

Neither party has been able to suggest a coherent response to the question, which involves a wide range of factors—from national security to, some would argue, animal rights.

“While it may be true that hybrids are not human,” Senator Cheryl Matting (D, New York) said, “The fact remains they are living creatures deserving of fundamental levels of dignity.”

Her statement was met sharp rebukes from Senators of both parties from states where the largest demon massacres took place.

“We should kill every one of them,” Senator Howard Albright (R, New Mexico) said, “This isn’t a matter of ethics, it’s a matter of National Security.”

 

_**The Washington Post** _

**Monday, September 16 th, 1976**

**Confirmation: Hybrid’s Aren’t Human**

The American Psychological Association, American Medical Association, Department of Health, and Department for Supernatural Containment have released a joint statement announcing their unanimous agreement that hybrids are genetically distinct from humans.

“Due to dramatic disparities in their genetic make-up and cognitive functions, it is the unanimous agreement of these organizations that hybrids cannot be considered human. Furthermore, equating beings created by supernatural entities of incredible destructive power with humans is a grave and potentially catastrophic error, regardless of superficial similarities in appearance and physical capabilities.”

Other major public and private medical and research bodies are expected to sign onto this statement in the coming weeks.

 

_**The Wall Street Journal** _

**Wednesday, September 18 th, 1976**

**“Make Them Pay Their Debt with Their Sweat”**

Robert Engel, who is running for his second term as Governor of Nebraska aired an explosive opinion when speaking with reporters Tuesday.

“I tell you what kills me,” he said, “We’ve got demon children sitting around on the taxpayer’s dollar while our children go hungry and their parents look desperately for jobs that keep moving overseas. Those hybrids must bear the souls of the 15,000 people killed by demons and their human hosts. I say we make them pay off their debt with their sweat!”

The statement triggered immediate backlash.

“We cannot let these tragedies deprive us of our humanity,” Herbert Greenman, Governor Engel’s Democratic opponent, said in a statement.

“We must go down this road again,” Richard Armstrong, President of the Nebraska chapter of the NAACP told reporters, “We can never let this country fall back into the evil of slavery.”

Reactions to Engel’s comments have been relatively muted from both parties outside of Nebraska, as the country continues to grapple with a growing population of partially demonic beings.

“We’ll see what the people of Nebraska decide,” Allison Davis, a top Democratic Political Analyst said, “If this sinks Engel’s campaign, we’ve heard the last of this idea. If not, we may have a shocking development in an already vicious debate.”

 

_**The New York Times** _

**Wednesday, January 28 th, 1977**

**“Debt with Sweat” Movement Sweeps Nation**

Since Governor Robert Engel’s landslide victory in Nebraska, the “Debt with Sweat” Movement—which argues hybrids should be forced to work for the public good with little to no compensation—has swiftly gain traction among Republicans and, increasingly, Democrats.

A stunning 55% of Republicans say they would support “Debt with Sweat” Laws, with 20% opposing such policies and 25% remaining undecided. 28% of Democrats support “Debt with Sweat” policies, with 40% opposing and 32% undecided.

Republicans and Democrats who support “Debt with Sweat” Laws often do so for very different reasons.

“Those things are dangerous,” David Hernshaw, from Manitou, Wisconsin said, “Better them working than plotting to kill us all.”

“I think it’s really what’s best for them,” said Jennifer Billings from Portland, Oregon, “I mean. All the evidence says that hybrids need direction because they aren’t able to decide for themselves. Besides, I’d much rather be working in a field than cooped up in a lab.”

One group that still overwhelmingly opposes “Debt with Sweat” Laws are African Americans, with only 9% supporting such laws, 15% undecided, and 76% opposing.

“They said the same thing about us,” Melony Whittaker from Pensacola, Florida said. “If hybrids are intelligent enough to operate machines, they sure as hell are intelligent enough to understand money.”

 

_**The Wall Street Journal** _

**Tuesday, May 8 th, 1977**

**Congress Approves “Debt with Sweat” Study**

After nearly eight hours of debate, the House narrowly approved the Senate’s, “Debt with Sweat” study, which will determine hybrids’ response to labor with compensation, labor without compensation, and no labor.

“The study is to understand the potential costs and benefits of such programs to both humans and hybrids,” House Majority Leader Kevin Burbank told reporters, “If these programs make hybrids a threat to humans—something my colleagues and I take very seriously—then they clearly cannot move forward. By the same token, the programs would also need to be reevaluated if they posed unexpected discomfort to the hybrids themselves.”

The Department for Supernatural Containment will carry out the study. Emily Campbell, Vice Director of the DSC, assured reporters that the hybrids—the oldest of whom is nearly five-- involved in the study will be performing age-appropriate labor.

“The goal of this study is to conduct research upon which the American people and their government will be able to make informed policy decisions concerning hybrids,” she said.

 

_**The Washington Post** _

**Thursday, September 14 th, 1978**

**Congress Passes Hybrids for America Act**

Congress narrowly passed the “Hybrids for America Act,” which mandates that hybrids will carry out “unskilled labor for the Federal Government that does not damage their well-being or threaten the safety of Americans.” The law also allows the Department for Supernatural Containment to breed new hybrids from former demon hosts, all of whom are in DSC custody, as part of their research into combatting the demon threat.

Although the bill easily passed the Senate, many feared it would not survive the House, largely due to vigorous opposition to the bill from the Congressional Black Caucus and a small group of white progressive Democrats.

“This is slavery, pure and simple,” said Angela Hays (D Florida), Chairwoman of the Caucus, “We’re talking about relegalizing slavery, and I’m not going to put my people back in chains.”

However, three white members previously allied with the Caucus finally agreed to vote for the bill after the addition of a last minute of amendment saying that hybrids would not be bred from African American demon hosts.

“I understand why many Americans would be disturbed by the image of black hybrids,” Larry Daniels (D California), an author of the amendment and previous opponent to the bill said, “I also know many of my constituents feared this bill would be used to re-enslave them, but that is not and would never have been the case. Still, I understand the power of images, so no African American will ever see a black hybrid working for them.”

“Representative Daniels is not the first white person to justify evil on a technicality, and he won't be the last,” responded Representative Doug Kent (R Louisiana), a member of the Caucus, “Hybrids are not human, but that does not make this right.”

The bill had strong support among both Republicans (75%) and Democrats (60%). Once again, African American support of the bill is far lower than the national average (16%)

_**The Economist** _

**Tuesday, January 15 th, 1991**

**How Hybrids Are Saving American Industry**

In 1976, American economists, politicians, and workers alike saw the terrifying writing on the wall: the age of American manufacturing had ended. Workers who had spent generations working in mines, mills, fields, and factories increasingly found their jobs outsourced or replaced by machines—neither of which require salaries, benefits, or adherence to labor laws.

“When I lost my factory job, it felt like my life had ended,” Logan Waldorp in Hartington, West Virginia explained, “I didn’t know how I could face my wife and our kids and tell them I didn’t know how to put food on the table anymore.”

It may well have been impossible for workers like Logan to find reliable work again . . . until the Department of Supernatural Containment (DSC) began partnering with companies in areas with high levels of job loss due to mechanization or outsourcing.

Now, nearly-dead factory towns are experiencing huge surges of growth centered around what economists are increasingly calling “the hybrid industry,” which involves the breeding and training hybrids as well as overseeing hybrid labor.

As unsalaried sub-humans with few labor regulations, hybrids are cheaper than outsourcing or automating most farming and manufacturing jobs.

Now, Larry is one of 50 employees overseeing hybrid labor in a factory that, just 18 months ago, he believed had been closed forever.

“We’re taking one of the greatest attacks on our freedom of all time and transforming it to save our economy,” Eric Harding, Director of the DSC Outreach Center in Hartington said, “That’s American ingenuity at work.”

 

_**The Atlantic** _

**Thursday, April 17 th, 2017**

**The Hybrid Boom**

Once a last-ditch attempt to contain a devastating supernatural threat, many Economists now predict the hybrid industry will fuel a new wave of American economic growth.

“You have this massive, yet inexpensive labor pool that develops just as several key American industries are buckling under the weight of unsustainable labor costs,” explains Greg Stevens, Dean of the Harvard School of Economics. “All of a sudden, you have incentives for companies to keep their factories in the United States, for mines to keep running, for farms to still use non-mechanical labor. But you still need lots of human workers to manage the hybrids. Instead of losing jobs, workers are getting an upgrade—and often a pay raise.”

“In 1994, President Clinton announced the privatization of the entire hybrid market, which ushered in an economic revolution,” says Danica Hays, Dean of the Stanford School of Economics. “All of a sudden, you have all the big names—Walmart, Target, General Mills, and so on—buying up huge numbers of hybrids and creating aggressive breeding campaigns.”

“Hybrids are a billion-dollar industry by themselves,” says Renee Ellingsworth, President of Hybrid Solutions, which breeds hybrids for sale to mid-sized factories, farms, and industries. “For every hybrid we breed, we need humans to guard it, train it, find a buyer, package it, ship it, oversee its work, and handle the administrative end of all those tasks. Hybrids are unequivocally the future of the American economy.”

“The hybrid business is booming,” President Trump said in a press conference today, “It’s bringing jobs—good jobs, even better jobs than before—back to America. One day, no one, not a single person will open a door because there will be a good, obedient hybrid to do it for them.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story's subject matter is very sensitive. I'm trying to do my homework, but if there are things I need to change, don't hesitate to let me know.


	2. Fido

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean kills two black dogs and gets more than he bargained for.

_March 2, 2047_

_5 miles outside Homedale, Idaho_

 

“Fucking northern winters,” Dean glanced at the quickly disappearing sun. It was barely four-o-clock, and Dean had already gone and pissed the black dog off.

Speaking of . . . Dean spun out of the way as a black shape charged toward him. He managed to avoid its jaws, but the dog still knocked him to the ground. Dean scrambled to his feet just as the dog turned to face him again.

Dean raised his pistol and fired three times in rapid succession. But the ragged, black fur of the dog blended with the night’s lengthening shadows. The black dog yelped, then roared with renewed fury.

 _Shit_ , _just winged it_. Dean raised his pistol again, “Come on, demon dog,” he muttered, “Come at me.”

Except the black dog didn’t, and it didn’t make a run for it across the empty potato fields. Instead, it bolted to Dean’s right, hurtling towards a small barn.

“Shit. Shit. Shit,” Dean sprinted after the dog. He must have barely grazed it, because the thing was going plenty fast. It also meant the dog wasn’t running from Dean, it was running to something that tasted better than a stringy hunter.

Sure enough, the high whinny of a horse followed the dog’s roaring entrance into the barn.

Well that was something, at least. A dead horse Dean could deal with. Farmer Johnson would be pissed, but their contract covered up to $20,000 in property damages.

Except when Dean hurtled into the barn, he found a lanky man standing between the wild-eyed horse and the hulking dog with nothing but a pitchfork.

Fucking hell. Dean had told them to get all civilians off the property. He was gonna charge Farmer Johnson extra for that. For now, Dean just hollered “Hey fugly! Why don’t you leave the pony alone!” emphasizing his point with another gunshot.

This one went true, shattering the black dog’s scull. It fell without even a yelp, dark, viscous blood seeping onto the straw-strewn floor.

“You alright?” he demanded of the man, who was staring at the remains of the dog. The man looked up at him. His eyes went wide, and he dropped the pitchfork.

The collar around his neck went a long way to explain why.

“Ah,” Dean said, “So when I told Farmer Johnson to get all the civilians off the property, he didn’t think that included---“

“Behind you!” the man roared. Once again, Dean turned just in time to see another black dog charge him, but couldn’t react before the dog knocked him to the ground and sent his pistol flying. The black dog kept going though, charging the man and the horse.

The man had grabbed his pitchfork again, swinging it awkwardly but managing to hit the dog’s back.

It only bought them a second, but a second was all Dean needed.

“Hey fugly!” he repeated, getting to his feet and throwing his cell phone with one hand while drawing his knife with the other. The phone hit the dog’s paw, but it was enough. It turned and charged back at Dean, who slashed at it with the knife but only landed a glancing blow before the thing was on top of him again. Its mouth opened, and Dean got a face full of sour, blood-scented breath and a chance to send one last, silent curse to Farmer Johnson before . . .

The end of the pitchfork slammed the dog’s head. It shrieked in pain and turned, dragging a claw across its assailant’s chest. The man grunted, falling to the ground, blood spilling from the wounds. Dean staggered to his feet again, slamming his knife into the black dog’s side. He drew blood this time, but the dog pulled away and launched at the horse. Its jaw clamped around the horse’s throat and it fell, screaming.

The man was screaming too, dragging himself to his knees and scrambling around the floor until he found Dean’s gun, fumbling down the safety and raising the weapon with trembling hands.

A shot cracked through the air, and the black dog fell under the flailing remains of the horse.

The man dropped the weapon and stumbled toward the horse, throwing his hands over its side and burying his face in its mane.

Dean picked up the gun and approached the bizarre heap of dead, dying, and wounded flesh. He kicked the dog, and, satisfied it was dead, flicked the safety on his gun and stuck it in his pocket before searching around in the straw for his cell phone. He found it quickly, grimaced at the black blood coating it, wiped it on his jacket, and dialed a number.

“It’s done,” he said the moment Farmer Johnson answered, “Meet me at the barn.” He hung up before the Farmer could respond and approached the man, who was still leaning, and bleeding, over the now-dead horse.

“Alright buddy,” Dean said, “Let me get a look at those scratches.” When the man didn’t respond, Dean shook his shoulder, “Dude! Look at me!”

The man flinched but obeyed, staring at Dean with blotchy, terrified eyes.

“We gotta take a look at those,” Dean gestured to the still-bleeding cuts. The man stared uncomprehendingly at the wounds. Dean rolled his eyes. People in shock acted stupid as hell, although hybrids were dumb as shit anyway.

Muttering to himself, Dean pulled off his coat and flannel, tearing the later into makeshift bandages with his knife and tying them tightly around the hybrid’s battered chest.

“Some of these will need stitches, but this’ll do for now,” Dean said as he laid his coat over the hybrid like a blanket, “At least until your owner gets here to tell me what the hell I’m supposed to do with you.” He stood and jogged to front of the barn in time to see an old pickup truck crawling towards them. He waited by the door until the truck stopped and Farmer Johnson and his wife jumped out, dressed in identical worn jeans and utilitarian coats.

“Mr. Winchester,” Farmer Johnson said, “Is it done?”

“It’s done,” Dean nodded, “Couple of hiccups along the way, but both black dogs are taken care of.”

“Both?” Mrs. Johnson frowned.

“’Fraid so,” Dean said, “I haven’t heard of them traveling in pairs before, but there were definitely two tonight. I have to say, you oughta be proud of your hybrid. He helped me out of a tight corner with the second one.”

“We train our property well,” Farmer Johnson said.

“Right,” Dean said. He’d never spent much time around hybrids and wasn’t quite sure how he was supposed to talk about them, “Well, I am also very sorry to say that your horse in there was attacked by the second dog.”

Mrs. Johnson gasped, “Did he . . . is he _alright_?”

“I’m afraid he didn’t make it.”

Mrs. Johnson burst into tears, and Farmer Johnson pulled her into a one-arm squeeze, “You don’t have to look, darling,” he said, “Why don’t you wait in the truck while Mr. Winchester and I handle this?” He pressed the keys into her trembling hands and kissed the top of her head.

“She was very attached to Lonnie,” he said as Dean led him inside, “Raised him from a colt.”

“I’m very sorry.”

“I understand, Mr. Winchester. Better Lonnie than her . . .” Farmer Johnson stopped, staring, open-mouthed at the scene.

“It’s not pretty,” Dean said, “Just wanted to give you visual confirmation, as you wante—“

“It’s not dead?”

“Lonnie? I’m afraid he is . . .”

“No, not Lonnie, the hybrid!”

Dean looked between Farmer Johnson, now pale with fury, and the hybrid staring blearily at them, “I . . . well, no.”

Farmer Johnson ignored him, “I told you,” he said, striding forward and pulling the hybrid’s head up by the hair, “I told you to guard him with your life!”

“He damn well tried,” Dean said, pulling the coat up so Farmer Johnson could see the hybrid’s bandages, “And like I said, he saved my ass.”

“But you’re a trained hunter, what use could it be?”

 _If you thought he was useless, why the hell did you leave him to die with the damn horse_? But Dean just said, “Like I said, the second dog took me by surprise. It knocked me down, and he hit it with the pitchfork. Then he . . .”

The hybrid, which had been staring listlessly at the floor, looked up with wide, terrified eyes.

“He bought enough time for me to get my gun and shoot it,” Dean finished. The hybrid’s head sagged back down.

“Well, it was awfully kind of you to bandage it, but you might as well shoot it now.” The hybrid’s head jerked up again.

“What do you mean?” Dean said, “He’ll be fine, might take a few weeks, but . . .”

“I bought it on sale to begin with,” Farmer Johnson said, “It’ll cost more than I paid to fix it, what with medical costs and lost labor time.”

“He saved my life!”

“Like I said, Mr. Winchester, I train my property well. But I’ve already lost five cattle, my wife’s horse, the five grand I’ve gotta pay you, not to mention whatever property damage is going to come out of this mess. I sure as hell don’t have the time or money to waste on that,” he gestured at the hybrid. “At the very least, I’ll get five hundred bucks from the insurance company.”

The hybrid leaned back against the horse, half-closed eyes moving between Dean and Farmer Johnson.

“I tell you what,” Dean said, “You let me take him off your hands, and I’ll knock my regular price down five hundred bucks.”

Farmer Johnson looked at him with greedy blue eyes, “Insurance may pay me up to a grand.”

 _Like hell they would_. “Fine. $4,000 and the hybrid.”

“Then you’ve got a deal.”

* * *

 

The five--now four--grand included cleanup, but Farmer Johnson allowed Dean to take the hybrid to the hotel room before taking care of the dogs. He did so with a condescending grin that clearly said he considered Dean a chump.

Which may be true, Dean admitted as he laid the half-conscious hybrid on a dozen towels Dean had demanded from housekeeping onto the bed. He sure as hell didn’t need a healthy hybrid, much less an injured one. Still, the hybrid _had_ saved Dean’s ass, so he figured he owed it to the thing to fix it up and sell it to a decent owner.

So Dean cleaned out its wounds properly, stitched the deepest cuts, and bandaged the rest. At first, the hybrid floated in and out of consciousness, but was fully out well before Dean finished. Dean hesitated then cuffed one of his wrists to the side of the bed. He doubted the hybrid would be awake, much less able to find a weapon or escape, but it was better to be cautious. The second black dog proved that.

Then Dean drove back to salt and burn the dogs. Farmer Johnson said he would cremate Lonnie in the morning, so that “Mrs. Johnson has a chance to say goodbye.” Dean was sure Farmer Johnson would have had him salt and burn the hybrid, which made it hard to feel like he’d been wrong to buy him.

Finally, just after one-in-the-morning, they finalized the payment. Farmer Johnson had taken the liberty of crossing out the $5000 in their contract and writing in “$4000 + hybrid” before making a copy for them both to sign. Then Farmer Johnson pulled out an ancient laptop and electronically transferred the hybrid’s title to Dean.

“It’s all yours,” Farmer Johnson said, shoving a freshly printed piece of paper into Dean’s hands, “There’s a paper copy of the title, but it’ll already ring up as yours if anyone scans its barcode.” He grinned, clearly in a much better mood now that he was paying $1000 less than he had expected.

“Right.”

“I’ll even throw in this,” Farmer Johnson pressed a small remote-like device into Dean’s hands.

“Thanks,” Dean said, too sick of Farmer Johnson’s condescension to ask what it was. “Well, goodnight Mr. Johnson.”

When he got back to the Impala, Dean shoved the title into the glove box. On his way back to the hotel, he saw a faded billboard of a collared man with his hands plunged in dishwater while a couple watched TV in the next room. The caption read:

_Find a Fido Who Can Do Your Dishes!_

* * *

 As Dean expected, the hybrid was still asleep when he stumbled into the motel room a little after two. By that point, his muscles were cramping and the bruises on his back and ass where the black dogs and repeatedly knocked him to the ground hurt like a bitch. Dean had only booked a single, and there was no way in hell he wasn’t sleeping in a bed tonight.

So he grabbed all the blankets in the Impala and laid them next to the bed, along with the spare pillow.

“Buddy,” he said, shaking the hybrid ( _his_ hybrid) awake. The hybrid jerked awake immediately, flailing a little and nearly falling of the bed.

“Woah, easy there. We’re just modifying the sleeping arrangements,” Dean said, unlocking the cuff from the bed and wrapping the hybrid’s arm around his shoulder. He didn’t fight, but Dean still cuffed his wrist (the other one, to minimize the tension on his hands) to the bed leg. After a moment, he dropped the blanket over the hybrid too before falling face-first onto the bed and sinking immediately into a dreamless sleep.

When Dean woke eight hours later, he had forgotten about his most recent purchase. He stumbled into the bathroom to relieve himself and shower, came out with a towel wrapped casually around his waist and turned on the TV for some background noise. It wasn’t until he crossed to the other side of the room to dig into his duffle for a clean shirt that he noticed a pair of hazel eyes watching at him.

“Holy _shit_!” the hybrid flinched and stared at the ground. The cuff clanged against the leg of the bed.

“Were you watching me this whole time? You know what, don’t answer that. Just . . . _shit_.” He looked back down at the hybrid, who seemed to be doing his best to disappear into the blankets, “How long have you been awake?”

“Awhile sir,” the hybrid kept his voice low but still easily heard. His eyes remained fixed on Dean’s knees.

“Do you need to piss?”

“If that’s alright, sir.”

Dean grabbed his keys from the table and released the hybrid’s wrist, “Sorry about that. Just a precaution while we’re still getting to know each other.”

“Of course, sir.”

The hybrid wasn’t much of a conversationalist, but Dean supposed that was to be expected. He helped him to his feet and guided him to the bathroom.

“Do you need help aiming?”

“No sir.”

“Okay. Take a piss. Then we’ll look at your bandages.”

The hybrid’s wounds had stopped bleeding, and Dean didn’t see any signs of infection. As he sanitized and re-bandaged the cuts, Dean got his first real look at the ( _his_ ) hybrid. He was tall, easily taller than Dean, but too thin to seem intimidating. Dean couldn’t quite see the guy’s ribs, and his muscles were lean and toned, but Dean was equally certain the guy didn’t have (probably never had) an ounce of fat.

Like all hybrids, this one had a worn, leather collar with no buckle.

“What if you need to get this thing off?” Dean felt along the collar.

“It needs to be done at a hybrid maintenance center, sir. They’re the only ones who can deactivate it.”

“Deactivate what?”

The hybrid flinched again, “The electricity, sir.”

“Oh, right.” Dean knew that. Every hybrid’s collar had an electrolyzed metal core. Over the past few years, most collars had been outfitted so the owner could shock misbehaving hybrids. Dean grabbed the small remote-like device that Farmer Johnson had given him. Sure enough, it had a small, on/off switch, an up and down arrow button, and a much larger red button.

Dean looked up. The hybrid had frozen, staring ahead with his fingernails digging into his palms.

“Relax dude,” Dean said, raising his hands, “I’m just making sure it’s off. I’m not a sadist, and you sure as hell haven’t done anything to be punished for. The opposite, really.”

He glanced briefly at the metal tag hanging from the collar with the hybrid’s ID number and manufacturer. The same information was tattooed above the barcode on the hybrid’s wrist.

“You’re Walmart brand?” Dean frowned. Like everything else from there, Walmart hybrids weren’t worth much.

“Yes sir.”

“And your ID Number is,” Dean lifted the hybrid’s wrist closer to make out the small numbers, “S27AQ9M.”

“Yes sir.”

“That’s what you’re called.”

“Yes sir.”

“Well I’m not gonna remember that,” Dean said, “Is there another name people call you?”

“Some . . . some people call me Sam, sir.”

Dean looked back down at the code. It had an S, A, and M, so the name made sense.

“Awesome. Well Sam, I’ll give it to you straight. I’m a hunter that lives on commission, travels 90% of the time, and sure as hell doesn’t need a hybrid, but you saved my ass, which means I owe you. So I’m gonna get you better and find you a good owner who will actually use you. You understand?”

“Yes sir.”

Dean loaded the rest of his stuff into the Impala before helping Sam into the backseat. He stopped at the bank to deposit his check on the way out of town before pulling through a McDonalds drive-through.

“No hybrid food here, so human food it is,” Dean glanced at the back seat, “What do you want?”

Sam just stared at Dean, who suddenly realized that Sam probably never had human food before, or at least not enough to know what he liked. He also was illiterate.

“Right,” Dean turned back around and doubled his usual order of egg McMuffins.

Half an hour later, Sam began retching in the back seat.

“Shit,” Dean pulled over and looked back at Sam, who had his arms wrapped around his stomach and a small pile of sick in his lap.

“None of it got on the car, sir,” he rasped.

Dean rubbed his eyes, “Right. That’s . . . that’s good Sam. We’ll take the next exit, find you a Walmart, and get some food you can eat.”

The Walmart trip took less than 15 minutes. Dean left Sam with one wrist cuffed to the car door and jogged to the hybrid maintenance section where he chose the cheapest bag of hybrid feed, a couple t-shirts and jeans, and some more gauze and bandages.

“There you go,” Dean said, handing Sam one of the t-shirts and stuffing the ruined one in a shopping bag. Sam tugged it over his head, wincing slightly. “And here,” Dean handed him a serving of feed in a plastic bowl and a water bottle. “You’ll be able to have more pain killers when we get home.”

This time, Sam lasted 45 minutes.

“What the hell,” Dean demanded as Sam began retching.

“I’m sorry sir,” Sam arms were still wrapped around his stomach.

“It’s not your fault,” Dean snapped as he checked Sam’s wounds and temperature. “No sign of infection that I can see. Show me how much you ate.”

Sam handed Dean the McDonalds bag and plastic bowl. The bowl was mostly full, and Sam had eaten just half an egg McMuffin.

Dean frowned, an unpleasant thought settling into place. “What did you eat at Farmer Johnson’s?”

Sam blushed and stared at the asphalt. A car sped past, sending a ripple of wind through his hair, “Potatoes sir.”

“Potatoes and?”

“Just potatoes.”

“How much?”

“One. Sometimes two if they were small.”

“That much a meal?”

“A day.”

“You were his farmhand, right?”

“Yes sir.”

“Why the hell was he feeding you so little?”

Sam bowed his head, “I . . . I ate one of his potatoes, sir.”

“Okay, so you ate a potato and he punished you by cutting your meals. When did this happen?”

“Harvest before last, sir.”

“Over a year,” fury rose in Dean’s chest. He didn’t like people who kicked their dogs, and he definitely didn’t like people who starved their hybrids.

“Well I’m afraid I won’t be able to give you anything else until we get home and I can find something you’ll actually be able to keep down.”

“Yes sir.”

“Alright,” Dean rubbed a hand down his face, “Try to get comfortable, maybe get some sleep. We’ll be there in a few hours.”

By the time Dean pulled up to his dilapidated house in Sunnydell, Idaho that afternoon, Sam was half-conscious again. He made small, pained noises as Dean pulled him out of the car, slinging Sam’s arm around his neck and half-carrying him into the house. It was awkward unlocking the door, but Dean had carried his half-conscious Dad enough to manage without jostling Sam much. Dean settled Sam on the couch and checked his bandages, frowning a little when he saw one of the deeper ones was a little inflamed.

“Let’s kick that in the ass,” he muttered, giving it an extra douse of alcohol. Sam whimpered and jerked, “Easy, easy,” Dean muttered. He dug in his duffel and pulled out a bottle of prescription-grade painkillers, “Technically you shouldn’t have these on an empty stomach,” Dean propped Sam up against his chest and helping him swallow the pills with a few gulps of water, “But I figure you’re okay with me bending the rules.”

Sam blinked, tilting his head up to meet Dean’s eyes, finally somewhat aware.

“Thank you,” he said, eyes wide and bewildered

Dean’s throat tightened, “Don’t worry about it. Get some sleep. I’m gonna track down some food you can actually stomach.”

There wasn’t a good place to cuff Sam’s wrist to the couch, so Dean just left him and drove the fifteen minutes down to the grocery store. That was the pain-in-the-ass part about living in rural towns—nothing was close.

This time, Dean skipped the hybrid section and grabbed a couple of boxes of cream of wheat and a few cans of broth along with some spaghetti, marina sauce, corn flakes, milk, a carton of eggs, and a couple six packs. He’d made a thousand dollars less than he had expected and had another mouth to feed, so he stuck to the basics.

Sam was still asleep when Dean got back, so he made himself some spaghetti and drank lukewarm beer before pulling out his laptop and conducting his usual search from demonic activity, scowling when he didn’t find any.

He got up to check on Sam and found him awake and sitting silently again.

“You can tell me when you wake up.”

“Yes sir,”

“How’s the pain?”

“It’s fine, sir.”

Dean didn’t believe him, but he couldn’t do anything about it anyway. “I’ll get you something to eat. You should be able to keep it down this time.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Dean got up and heated the broth on the stove until it was a little more than lukewarm. He didn’t want to risk upsetting Sam’s stomach again by making it too hot.

“You able to feed yourself?” Dean said as he handed Sam a bowl of broth and a spoon.

Sam’s eyes were fixed to the bowl, “Yes sir.”

“Good,” Dean got up and went to unload the Impala properly, cleaned his weapons, and started a load of laundry. The next time he checked on Sam, the bowl was empty and he had fallen back asleep.

* * *

 

The next week passed quietly. Sam escaped an infection and was healing well. After he made it the second day without throwing up any of the broth, Dean moved him up to cream of wheat. When Sam took his first bite of the warm cereal, he gasped and tears welled in his eyes.

“You okay?”

“Yes sir,” Sam said quickly, “It’s just, it’s so _good_ sir.”

“Really? Cause I used to hate it when my dad bought me that crap.”

Sam nodded, “It’s wonderful. Thank you, sir.”

He was saying “thank you” a lot, it was getting annoying.

“Well, you saved my ass,” Dean said, “Which I haven’t thanked you properly for.”

Sam flushed, “I had to, sir.”

“Apparently you had to save that horse, which was brave, you know, defending it with just that crappy pitchfork. I would’ve bolted.”

“Master Johnson ordered me sir, and . . . I would have anyway.”

Dean frowned, “You were willing to put your ass on the line for that horse?”

Sam’s eyes shifted to the floor, “Yes sir, for Lonnie. He was my . . . he was special.”

Dean got it. He suspected Sam had been Farmer Johnson’s only hybrid, and he and his wife clearly didn’t give a shit about him. He thought about how Sam had tried to save Lonnie, even while injured, and how he wrapped himself over the dead animal’s back.

“I’m sorry,” Dean said, “I’m sure he was a good horse.”

“He was sir. He liked me better than Mistress Johnson too,” Sam flushed and grimaced.

Dean laughed, “I don’t blame him. The Johnson’s were assholes.”

Sam’s eyes widened, but he smiled, “Yes sir.”

Sam’s smile felt good, Dean doubted he smiled often.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story is set way into the future to give time for the dystopian systems to mature, but Dean's still driving Baby :)


	3. Burden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam's not worth much. Dean needs a plan B.

“Dean Winchester.”

Dean turned and smiled at the voice, “Hey Brenda.”

Brenda smiled. Dean’s middle-aged neighbor was a receptionist for the town’s orthodontist. A life-long Sunnydell resident who had done the unthinkable and divorced the pastor’s son, she had a frank personality that Dean vastly preferred to the passive-aggression rampant in small towns.

“Dean Winchester, is it true Carol Peterson saw you in the hybrid section of the grocery store?” Brenda jerked her eyebrows up in faint amusement, “What use does a hunter have for a hybrid?”

“None at all,” Dean said, “But he got injured putting himself between me and a black dog. His owner would have put him down otherwise.”

Brenda rolled her eyes, but her smile broadened, “Who knew hunters were such softies?”

“I’m just getting him fixed up before I sell him.”

“Well it sure should be grateful to you,” Brenda said, “Good luck to you both, and make sure we have a beer together before you chase after another demon.”

* * *

 

Two weeks after arriving in Sunnydell, Dean removed Sam’s stitches, had him shower, and brought him to the local hybrid service center. The claw marks were still an angry pink and would definitely scar, but Sam was awake and alert, color had returned to his face, and he was able to move without much pain. He’d moved up from cream of wheat to the hybrid feed and started doing most of the chores, including ones Dean never bothered with, like dusting and washing windows. The house was much cleaner than usual, which was nice, but Bobby had called the night before with news of a string of cattle mutilations and strange weather patterns in Georgia. It was time to move on.

The service center was a small office on the second floor of Sunnydell’s only office building, beneath the dentist and above the real estate agent. A bored receptionist barely glanced at them as Dean entered, Sam following several steps behind him, head bowed.

“Yes?”

“Name’s Dean Winchester. I have a 12:30 appointment.”

The receptionist tapped at the computer for a few moments, “You’re here for an appraisal?”

“That’s right.”

More tapping, “Barcode please.”

Sam approached the desk, head still down, and held out his wrist. The receptionist scanned the code with a hand-held scanner. The scanner made a low beep and flashed green, “Wrists together.”

Sam obediently extended his wrists to the receptionist, who leaned forward and deftly zip-tied them together.

“That’s not . . .”

“Federal regulation,” the receptionist said, “All hybrids must be secured in service centers. Ms. Clarke will be with you in a few minutes.”

Dean sat in the waiting area, and Sam knelt to his left, eyes still fastened to the floor. There was only one other person in the waiting room, a bearded man that reminded Dean of Farmer Johnson. Probably one of the local potato farmers. A young hybrid, maybe in her early teens, knelt beside him. Her head was bowed like Sam’s, but Dean saw a tear slide down her face. The farmer was reading a Bible.

The TV was off, and the only reading materials were lifestyle magazines, so Dean stared aimlessly around the room. The walls were covered in bright, framed posters.

 _Hybrids: The Key to Economic Independence_ one read, with a large image of a bald eagle crushing a globe beneath its talons.

 _Combat Hell’s Threat_  said another, _Invest in Hybrids Today_ This image showed Uncle Sam with his hands clasped around a cartoon image of the devil, complete with a spiked tail and horns.

 _Respect. Control. Discipline_ , the third said with a picture of a hybrid on his knees. In front of him stood an owner holding his hand up, which Dean recognized as the sign for _kneel_.  _Train Your Hybrids_  the bottom of the poster said.

“You can go on back Mr. Debaussy,” the receptionist said, pointing to a door to her right. The farmer stood, tugging the girl to her feet. She was still weeping, and Dean watched her go with a frown. He noticed Sam watching her too, but his face was bent too low for Dean to make out his expression.

A few minutes later, the receptionist said, “Ms. Clarke is ready for you Mr. Winchester,” pointing again at the door, "Third door to the left." Dean stood without a word, opened the door and went down the hallway. Sam followed obediently behind.

Dean stopped at the third door on the left, but barely had time to read the plaque that said “L. Clarke, Appraiser." before the door opened, “Mr. Winchester,” Ms. Clarke said, shaking his hand, “Wonderful to meet you. Come on in.” She gestured to a chair in front of a plain desk, and Dean sat. Sam knelt again beside him.

“Okay, let’s take a look,” she said, putting on a pair of glasses and tapping at her computer. “Its barcode works fine. Microchip still in order.” She clicked her mouse, and Sam jerked and briefly closed his eyes. “Collar also perfectly fine.”

“Why’d you shock him?”

Ms. Clarke raised her eyebrows, “It needs its collar checked at least once a year.”

“That’s not . . . I don’t like using it unless I really need to.”

“That was the lowest setting,” Ms. Clarke said. She looked at him over her glasses, “I assume you’re new to hybrid ownership.”

“I’m a hunter. Don’t have a use for them. This one just fell into my lap.” He gestured at Sam.

“Which is why you’re looking for an appraisal,” Ms. Clarke nodded, “Well let’s see what I can do for you.” She stood and jerked her right hand forward, as if gesturing for someone to come near. Sam got to his feet, staring at Ms. Clarke’s hands but taking care not to meet her eyes.

Ms. Clarke pulled on a pair of latex gloves and approached Sam. She gestured again, and Sam raised his bound hands above his head. She lifted up the back of his shirt and felt down his back, then did the same at the front, frowning at the barely healed wounds.

“What happened?”

“Black dog,” Dean said. Ms. Clarke nodded, pulled a small camera out of her pocket, and snapped several pictures of the wound. Then, without warning, she pulled Sam’s pants down and felt down his legs and around his ass. Dean winced on Sam’s behalf, but Sam gave no indication he noticed or cared. Ms. Clarke roughly pulled his pants back up and raised her arm in the gesture Dean recognized as _kneel_. Of course, Sam obeyed, and, after another small gesture, raised his head and opened his mouth. She pulled out a small light, like doctors used, and looked into Sam’s eyes, ears and mouth.

Apparently satisfied, Ms. Clarke pulled off the gloves and dropped them into a trashcan. With another gesture, Sam closed his mouth and looked down again.

Ms. Clarke tapped at the computer for a little while before taking her glasses off and looking up at Dean.

“I’m afraid Mr. Winchester that your hybrid is worth at most $150.”

“That’s it? But he’s a strong, healthy guy.”

“Strong, yes, but its records indicate a history of seizures.”

Farmer Johnson definitely hadn’t mentioned that, “A history of what?”

Ms. Clarke raised her eyebrows, “Didn’t you look at its records before purchasing it?”

“No. Like I said. He fell into my lap. The plan was to heal him up and get him off my hands.”

“Well, with the history of seizures, most factories, farms, and mines—the kinds of places that look for hybrids of this age and body type—won’t want it using machinery. Any of them probably won’t pay more than $75.”

“You’re kidding.”

“If it was a higher quality brand, you might have been able to go up to $100 or $115, but,” she gestured at Sam’s wrists, “It’s not necessarily built to last. You might have been able to sell it to a brothel for $100 or so, but with the scarring from the black dog, I doubt any would pay more than $50.”

“I paid more than $50 fixing him up,” Dean glared at Sam. He had known sparing the thing was going to hurt his bank account, but he’d assumed he’d at least be able to cover his medical costs.

“Honestly, Mr. Winchester,” Ms. Clarke said, “You probably should have put it down when it got injured.”

Dean remembered the stench of the black dog’s breath, the utter certainty he was going to die. He remembered the pitchfork making contact with the dog’s head, Sam standing above it.

“That wasn’t an option,” he said. For just an instant, Sam looked up at Dean, but returned his head to the ground too quickly for Dean to catch his expression. Dean looked back at Ms. Clarke, “Who’s willing to pay the $150?”

“Walmart.”

“You mean selling him to one of the local stores?”

“Of course not. Walmart allows you to sell back defective merchandise, and seizures qualify.”

“What will they do with him?”

“Try and locate the cause of the defect. They’d pick it up and ship it to the nearest breeding center for testing.”

Sam looked up again, this time seeking out Dean’s face with pleading eyes.

Ms. Clarke pursed her lips and tapped briefly at the keyboard. Sam jerked again and hurriedly looked back down.

“The hell you doing, lady?” Dean demanded.

Ms. Clarke ignored him, “Mr. Winchester, the easiest and most lucrative way to get this hybrid off your hands is to sell it back to the manufacturer. Otherwise, you’ll make barely enough money to take a date to dinner and a movie. Now, I can talk you through the sell back process right now and arrange to have it picked up from our location.”

Dean looked back at Sam. He didn’t dare look up again, but Dean could hear his sharp breathing. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that “locating the cause of the defect” would be excruciating . . . and probably deadly.

“That’s alright. I’ll think of something else to do with him.”

“If you wish, Mr. Winchester.” Ms. Clarke opened her desk drawer and drew out a pamphlet, “If you plan on keeping it for any significant length of time, I strongly encourage you to read this and attend our free _Basics of Ownership_ workshop. Training hybrids is everyone’s responsibility.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Dean said, shoving the pamphlet in his pocket. He stood and left the office, Sam following in his wake.

Dean didn’t speak a word during the trip home, which meant Sam didn’t either. Dean watched him in the rear-view mirror, rubbing his wrists to get blood flowing back to his hands, long, dark bangs hiding his eyes from sight.

When they got home, Sam busied himself cleaning the bathroom. Dean dug the pamphlet Ms. Clarke had given him out of his pocket, and opened his laptop.

He held his hands over the keyboard for a moment, at a loss of where to start, before finally Googling _What to do with a hybrid you don’t want._  He clicked the first useful-looking article.

_When Your Hybrid Becomes a Nuisance_

_Unwelcome Christmas present from your in-laws? Grandma die and leave an annoying inheritance? Hasty purchase? There are lots of ways to end up with a hybrid you don’t want, but never fear! There are still ways to turn your hybrid from a nuisance to a treasure!_

  1. _Help around the house. This may seem obvious, but there are always little chores we don’t even think about that a hybrid can take care of. Never open a window, pick up a sock, or turn on a light again!_
  2. _Home improvement. Have a room you’ve been meaning to paint? Want your own garden? Have fence to repair? Many hybrids are already licensed for home improvement. If not, consider sending it to a licensing camp. Your investment will be well worth it!_
  3. _Rent it out. Most brothels are always looking for more pleasure hybrids, and although the rent is usually small (generally $5-$10 a day), your hybrid will be out of your hair and will definitely learn a few tricks for your evening pleasure. ;)_
  4. _Loan it to a friend. For everyone who has a hybrid they don’t want, there’s someone who’d love an extra pair of hands. Loan your hybrid to someone you know for a day, a week, maybe even every day except when your in-laws come to call!_



Dean stopped scrolling and pulled out his phone. The other line picked up on the first ring. “Hey Brenda, you still interested in that beer?”

* * *

  “Sam!”

“Yes sir,” Sam said, coming into the kitchen where Dean was sitting with his laptop and a beer. 

“Make dinner for two tonight,” Dean said, “A friend of mine’s coming over.”

“Should I make anything specific sir?” Once Sam was vertical, he’d told Dean that he knew a few simple recipes over the years. It was one of the few perks of having him around.

“What were you going to make?”

“Fettuccine Alfredo with chicken, sir.”

“That’s fine. Doesn’t need to be anything fancy.”

“Yes sir. Is that all?”

“No, but . . .” Dean hesitated, “Could you sit down?”

Sam glanced anxiously at the chair, but obeyed, perching on the edge of the seat, as if ready to stand or kneel in an instant. Hybrids weren’t technically supposed to use furniture, spending most of their time on their feet or on the ground. Even Dean knew the first rule of training hybrids was emphasizing their separation from humans, but he got tired of looking up or down at Sam.

Besides, this seemed like an important enough conversation to bend the rules.

“Sam, look at me.” Sam obeyed, giving Dean a rare glimpse of his hazel eyes. Sam kept his hands beneath the table, but Dean suspected he was twisting them together, like he did whenever he was especially nervous.

“It’s alright,” Dean said, “Brenda’s going to come and meet you. She’s gonna look after you when I’m away on hunts.”

“Yes sir,” Sam whispered.

“She’s a good friend,” Dean said, “She’ll treat you right, and you’ll be able to do more than clean this place constantly. You behave for her like you’ve behaved for me, and you’ll be fine.”

“Yes sir.”

“Good,” Dean stood, “I’m leaving in the morning, so I’m gonna pack. You start on dinner.”

Sam stood, “Yes sir, and . . . thank you.”

Dean frowned, “For what?”

Sam shifted, “For not . . . for not selling me, sir. To the manufacturer.”

 _Oh_. Dean sighed, “Like I’ve been telling you, I don’t take people saving my ass lightly. Besides, no one else is gonna die because of me.”

Sam frowned, “Because of you, sir?”

 _Shit._ “Make dinner,” Dean said, and went to his room.

Instead of packing, Dean pulled a heavy journal out of his bag and flipped it open, playing with the small crucifix dangling from the end. Right there, paper-clipped to the first page, was a picture of him and Dad. They were sitting in the back of a pickup truck—probably one of Bobby’s. Dad’s arm was slung around his shoulder and he had one of his rare smiles.

Dean closed his eyes against the wave of memories that followed. Realizing Dad was missing, _really missing_. Finding the Colt. Catching up with him in Chicago. Dad, possessed by yellow-eyes, taunting him. Dean refusing to kill either of them. The car accident. Waking up, perfectly healthy, with his Dad dead and the gun gone.

“I’m coming for you, you yellow-eyed son-of-a-bitch,” Dean growled, and slammed the journal shut.

* * *

 “You cook well,” Brenda said to Sam as he served them both a second round of beers and bowls of ice cream.

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“But you could have seasoned the meat better.”

“Yes ma’am. I am sorry.”

Brenda waved her hand, “Don’t be. I already said it was good.”

“Brenda finds fault with everyone’s food but her own,” Dean said, “She’d give cooking tips to Bobby Flay.”

“I would,” Brenda agreed.

Dean and Brenda both laughed, but Sam frowned.

“He’s a famous chef,” Dean explained. When Sam still looked confused, Dean tried again, “A very famous cook.”

“Oh.”

“I suppose you’ve never been around fine dining,” Brenda said, “Especially not since you were bought by this bastard,” she kicked Dean under the table.

“No ma’am.”

“What have you done for work?”

“I was a farm hand, ma’am.”

“Did you just work in the fields?”

“No ma’am. I took care of the animals, did repairs on the house and the equipment, and cooked when Mistress Johnson was sick or didn’t want to.”

Brenda raised her eyebrows, “They worked you a lot, didn’t they?’

“Yes ma’am.”

“Farmer Johnson was a dick,” Dean said around a spoonful of ice cream.

A smile skittered across Sam’s face, but Brenda shot Dean a look, “It’s important for you to work hard and obey your masters, isn’t it?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Did you have other owners?”

“A brothel, ma’am.”

“Why did they sell you?”

“There was a fire, ma’am. They sold half of us to pay for the repairs,” Sam’s face shuttered, and he took a deep breath before continuing, “Before that, I was in a coal mine, and as a child I worked in my manufacturer’s factories.”

“And your manufacturer is?”

“Walmart ma’am.”

Brenda nodded, “Thank you, Sam. Now clear these away,” she nodded at their now-empty ice cream bowls.

Sam hesitated and glanced at Dean. When Dean nodded, he started gathering dishes and loading them into the crappy dishwasher.

“Well?” Dean asked as Brenda stared after Sam.

“It’s docile,” Brenda said, “And skilled. I’ll need to lock it down at night, if that’s alright. I don’t _think_ it will turn violent, but a middle-aged woman living alone shouldn’t let a young, strong hybrid wander her house at night.”

“No problem,” Dean said, “You sure you don’t want to keep him?”

“Definitely not,” she laughed, “I’ve got the best of both worlds: getting the service without paying to maintain it. Not to mention, I’ve never seen this place actually _clean_.”

Dean smiled, “Fair enough.”

Brenda lifted her beer bottle, “Then we have a deal.”

“Deal,” Dean agreed, clinking his bottle against hers.

 

Sam spent that night at Dean’s, since Brenda didn’t have an easy way to secure him at her house yet. Dean didn’t mind, content that the problem was solved. He especially didn’t mind when he woke to a pancake breakfast.

“God, I wish it made sense to bring you on the road,” Dean said as he dug into the small mountain of fluffy goodness.

Sam smiled and started cleaning up. Neither spoke as Dean finished eating, packed (for real this time) and loaded up Baby.

"Okay Sam!" he said, "Time to drop you off at Brenda's."

"Yes sir," Sam said, grabbing his own bag, which had a mostly-full bag of feed and a few changes of clothes from the corner of the living room.

"I'll be gone for awhile," Dean said as they left the house, Dean locking the door behind them, "But you'll probably have a better time with her anyway. Or at least more to do."

"Yes sir. And . . .Good luck, sir." 

Dean turned in surprise, but Sam's head was, as always, bent to the ground, his expression unreadable. Dean couldn't think of any response except, “You too, Sammy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter, we hear from Sam.


	4. Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam's new life brings up old memories. Dean gets some troubling news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We get to hear from Sam now, so things are going to get pretty dark--or darker.  
> Content warning for violence against children, animals, and some gore.

_[A camera flickers on. A man’s sitting at a table. He fiddles with his hands, carefully avoiding the camera. Behind him is a nondescript bed with ugly wall art above it.]_

_“And we’re rolling.”_

_“So how does this work?”_

_“It’s pretty straightforward. I ask some questions. You say as much or as little as you like.”_

_“People aren’t going to care about what I have to say.”_

_“They will eventually. I promise. Most people don’t realize what’s really happening.”_

_[The man doesn’t reply.]_

_“Are you sure you want to do this, Sam? It’s okay to say no.”_

_[Sam shakes his head.]_

_“I want people to know what happened.”_

_“Okay then. But let me know the second you want to stop.”_

_[Sam nods.]_

_“Let’s start at the beginning. What’s you first memory?”_

_[Sam looks into the camera for the first time.]_

_“Blood.”_

* * *

 

_Before Sam understood anything, he understood blood. Blood flowed from the still-beating hearts of cattle as hybrids secured them to a steadily moving assembly line. The first three hung them up. The fourth cut open their stomachs while a fifth scooped their guts into a large shoot, where they were nominally cleaned then ground to pieces for animal and hybrid feed. The cows moved down the line, hybrids skinning, cutting, grinding, packaging one part at a time until all that was left was a dripping skeleton. The skeletons were plunged into a boiling vat of something that pulled the last bits of grizzled flesh from the bones. This too would be added to the feed._

_A line of guards stood behind the hybrids in hulking armor holding electric prods and enormous guns. Sam’s job was to fetch things for them, usually water or soda, but sometimes snacks like peanuts or candy. The dying cattle and screeching machines made it too loud for Sam to hear their orders, but each item had a number, so all a guard had to do was raise their fingers, and Sam would run and get the food item that matched the number. 1 for water, 2 for coke, 3 for crackers, 4 for skittles . . . years later, while Sam slept in Dean’s living room or painted Brenda’s fence, he would still chant the words in his head. He hadn’t dared get them wrong._

_Sam didn’t remember the day he began working at the meat-processing factory, but he remembered the day he first saw another hybrid’s blood._

_It was the middle of summer, and the stench of death assaulted Sam’s nose and crawled down his throat until his mouth tasted like iron. His ill-fitting clothes stuck to his body and his hair was slick with sweat._

_He was bringing a guard her third bottle of water when he heard a furious roar that echoed even over the cattle and machines. Sam turned and watched a howling hybrid charge the guard next to Sam with his long, terrifying knife._

_The hybrid didn’t make it far. There was a thunder of bullets, and Sam jumped to the ground, hands tight over his ears. The water bottle clattered away. The hybrid fell._

_Then it was silent. Sam looked up and saw the assembly line had come to a halt. Everyone was staring at the guard standing over the hybrid’s bloody corpse._

_“Get some hybrids from cleanup to get this thing out of here!” he roared, kicking the hybrid’s head, “And get a replacement from the barracks!”_

_Fifteen minutes later, a new hybrid had taken the dead one’s place, the body was gone, and the line was moving again. Sam sat, cowered against a wall, tears in his eyes and hands over his ears._

_“You!” the guard shoving her gun at his chest, “Clean this shit up!” she pointed at the hybrid’s blood still staining the floor._

_Trembling, Sam obeyed, fetching a bucket of water half his height and a brush from the cleaning cart next to the shelf with the guards’ snacks. The old hybrid with the cart frowned at him, kissed the top of his head, and carried the bucket for him until he reached the door to the butchery. She wasn’t allowed to go any further. Sam scrubbed until the only blood was from cattle, poured the pink water down one of the enormous drains spaced strategically down the line, and dried the entire area with towels from the cart. He finished just as the night bell rang and the guards marched them to the barracks._

_The hybrid’s mangled body hung in chains from one of the thick posts in the center of the courtyard. He would rot there until birds ate it or the guards needed it for someone else._

_“Sammy. Sammy what happened?” gentle hand grasped Sam’s shoulders and he looked up into a pair of dark eyes._

_“Rhee!” he sobbed, falling into the woman’s thin, strong arms._

_“Sweetheart what happened?” Rhee said, as she guided him to the mess hall and got their evening rations. Sam never remembered meeting Rhee or why she took care of him. He didn’t have a mother, no hybrid did, but he thought she almost counted._

_“I-I h-h-had to clean up!” he managed between sobs, still burying himself in her chest._

_“Oh,” she said softly, “Oh Sammy, I’m so sorry.”_

_She held them the whole night: pressing food into his mouth even when he said he didn’t want any, scrubbing the dried blood that coated his body away with a makeshift rag, singing meaningless songs about butterflies, and holding him close at night whispering stories about a brave adventurer sailing across the blue, blue sea until he finally fell asleep._

Sam remembered all this as Brenda taught him to make beef stew.

“Remember, consistent cuts,” she said, “The size doesn’t matter as much as the consistency.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Good. Next, we’ll sear the meat to seal in the juices. Most of the cooking will happen when it’s in the pot.” She kept her thumb over the remote to his collar, clicked up to the highest setting. She did that whenever she had him work with anything he could use as a weapon.

He wanted to tell her she shouldn’t worry. Not only would killing her and running away lead to a slow, public execution, but Sam understood he deserved this.

Not every hybrid did, of course. Not Rhee, or the woman at the cleaning cart, or the hybrid who had charged the guards. Hell, no other hybrid deserved this. Sub-human descendants of demonic hosts or not, Sam felt the wrongness of their suffering in his bones. He knew every other hybrid felt the same.

Except Sam was different. He deserved to kneel at the feet of humans. Cook for them, clean for them, work until his hands bled for them.

It was the least he could do to atone for what he was. 

* * *

“You told me he’s been behaving well, not that he’s become a 5-star chef,” Dean said, leaning back in his chair after finishing a second plate of steak and mashed potatoes.

Brenda laughed, “As ever, Dean Winchester, you underestimate me.”

Dean had. He hadn’t doubted that Brenda would be able to keep Sam busy, but he hadn’t expected to come home to find her dilapidated, chain-link fence in the front of her yard replaced with a wooden one, complete with a gate in front of the sidewalk. Sam had also repainted her house and filled the cracks in her driveway.

“I’m going to have it start on some interior renovations next,” she said, “Leaky faucets, refurbishing my grandmother’s old table, that sort of thing.”

“Since when have you given two shakes of a rat’s ass about that table?”

“I don’t. To be honest, I don’t care much about any of it. That’s why I had it start on outside work,” she clapped her hands together and grinned.

Dean raised his eyebrows, “What do you mean? And what are you so excited about?”

“Oh Dean, isn’t it obvious?” Brenda’s eyes glittered, “I’ve been _advertising_.”

“Advertising?”

“Not explicitly, of course,” Brenda said, “I wouldn’t do that without your permission. I just kept it busy and talked about what a wonderful job it was doing at work and with my friends.”

Dean finally understood, “You want to rent him out.”

“Half a dozen people have already asked. I figure we can charge two-thirds the contracting rate, and we’ll have money flowing in.”

“We?” Dean laughed, “I feel like I’m on the bench of this game.”

“Oh, don’t be silly. It still belongs to you. I’ll just handle the back end. You know, setting prices, coordinating with clients and the like.”

“Alright I’m listening,” Dean said, “How much would you want of the pot?”

“I was thinking 20%”

“Just 20? Brenda, you’ll be doing most of the work.”

“Dean,” Brenda sighed, “I’m a single woman with a steady job. I can afford a massage every couple of weeks and vacation in Florida once a year. I don’t need much more. I want you to be able to have the money you need to kick those monster sons of bitches in the ass.” She gave him a sad smile.

“You’ve got a deal,” Dean said finally, then grinned, determined to lighten the mood, “As long as you teach him to make me pie while you’re at it.”

Sure enough, Brenda laughed, “I can promise that.”

 

The next few days passed quietly, silently even. Dean had located some new books on demon lore and spent most of his time looking for information on yellow eyes. Since Dean hadn’t left Brenda a key to his place, Sam had plenty of chores to catch up on and was now making Dean three awesome meals a day. When he wasn’t serving Dean food, Sam somehow made himself invisible, apparently basing his cleaning schedule on when Dean wasn’t in the room.

Dean was (mostly) comfortable living alone, but Sam’s invisible presence made Dean feel oddly lonely. He wondered if Sam felt the same way. He and Sam almost never spoke, and entire days passed without Sam saying anything except “Yes sir.” 

Dean considered this as he watched Sam clear away the remains of some pork chops after yet another day spent in near silence, Dean found himself asking, “Are you happy, Sam?”

Sam turned with a frown, “I’m sorry, sir?”

“Are you happy here?” Dean suddenly found he really wanted an answer. At least Dean could talk to Brenda and Bobby, but Sam had no one. Did that bother hybrids? Or were they not human enough to care? It's not like demons were particularly social. 

“I don’t . . . I . . .” Sam flushed, “I am grateful sir. You are a very kind master, and Mistress Brenda is good to me.”

“That wasn’t my question, Sam.”

“I . . . I’m sorry sir. I . . .”

Sam had never seemed so uncomfortable, so Dean shook his head, “Never mind. Forget I asked. Carry on with the dishes.”

“Yes sir.” Sam turned and began loading the dishwasher. Dean watched him for a few seconds before going to the living room to distract himself on his laptop.

Long after Sam had curled onto the hybrid cushion Brenda had bought and under a blanket Dean had given him (Sam had stared at the thing for thirty seconds, as if he’d never seen a blanket before), Dean lay in bed, not entirely sure why he couldn’t sleep. 

* * *

 

The next day, Dean met Walt.

The doorbell rang a little after lunch. Dean figured it was either the someone delivering a package or some missionaries, Dean had Sam had answer the door while while debated finishing a mostly inaccurate book about demons from the 18th century. It claimed, for one thing, that demons could enter a host without their permission.

“Yes sir,” he heard Sam say.

“Your master here?”

“Y-yes sir.”

Dean frowned at Sam’s stutter. He pressed his hand against the gun in his pocket and stood, walking to the door, “Who is it?”

Sam immediately stepped aside and a man in a cheap government suit flashed a badge at him, “Walt Dankins, Department of Supernatural Containment.”

“DSC,” Dean rolled his eyes, “Haven’t seen you guys in a while.”

Although hunters could work solo, they needed to be licensed through the DSC. The agency had been trying to recruit Dean from the moment he became legal, something that had never failed to piss Dad off. He loathed the DSC. Dean didn’t particularly like them either.

The DSC also regulated the entire hybrid industry, which explained why Sam was doing his best impression of a wall.

“You have some time to talk?” Walt said with an arrogant smile that Dean didn’t trust for an instant. When Dean nodded, the smile widened, “Wonderful.”

Walt stepped inside and looked around the bare living room with interest as Sam silently shut the door. “This is probably the cleanest hunter’s house in the country. I’m assuming you have that to thank,” he waved vaguely in Sam’s direction.

“Sam’s nice to have around,” Dean said neutrally.

Walt settled himself in an old armchair, apparently impervious to Dean’s cold glare, “Dean Winchester, hybrid owner,” he said, “I almost didn’t believe it when I saw it in your file. Your Daddy’s rolling over in his grave.”

Dean ignored the comment, mostly because Walt was right. John Winchester hated hybrids only slightly more than he hated the DSC.

“What do you want, Walt?” he said instead.

“I have . . . Actually, you have anything to drink? I’ve been talking all day and it’s hot as hell out there.”

“Fine. What do we have, Sam?”

“Water, milk, beer, sir--sirs. I can also make lemonade sirs,” Sam’s voice rose barely above a whisper, and his eyes skittered between Dean and Walt’s shoes.

“I’ll take some lemonade,” Walt said.

“Yes sir,” Sam half-glanced at Dean, “And you, sir?”

“I’m fine,” Dean said without taking his eyes from Walt.

“Yes sir,” Sam whispered before slinking to the kitchen.

“I have a couple things to discuss,” Walt said, “I’ve been asked to again offer you a position at DSC’s Denver office.”

“No.”

“It’s not all paperwork, Dean,” Walt said, “I still get out in the field plenty, and I have access to the government’s latest intel on non-human threats.”

“That’s a surprise, since it takes you guys a month to find your asses.” Dean faintly heard Sam pour water into a pitcher.

“Just as crass as people say,” Walt smiled, “I like that.”

“Don't care if you like it or not. Is that all you need to say?”

Walt shook his head, “You may know it’s customary for a DSC representative to visit first-time hybrid owners. You know, see how things are settling in and to go over a few simple rules. How has it been behaving so far?”

Dean gestured at the kitchen, “Like you said, clean house, good food, I’m set.”

“Do you take it on hunts?”

“I leave it with the neighbor across the street,” Dean said, hoping the use of “it” would help end the conversation quickly, “She’s having it do some work for her.”

“And she manages it well? Not a Sympathizer? More and more women are, you know.”

Dean had yet to meet an actual Sympathizer. He suspected it was just a couple dozen internet trolls, “She lost a sister in a demon raid. She’s no Sympathizer.”

“Good,” Walt glanced up as Sam re-entered, holding a pitcher and an empty glass on a small cookie sheet. Frowning, Walt jerked his hand up, and Sam dropped to his knees without spilling a drop of lemonade. Walt gestured again, and Sam shuffled forward, setting the tray on the coffee table and pouring Walt a glass. “I don’t like when they tower over us,” he said, taking a large gulp of lemonade and sending Sam shuffling back to the wall with another gesture.

“Remember whose property that is,” Dean said coolly.

“Fair enough,” Walt nodded, “I also need to go over the basic rules to hybrid maintenance. Tick the boxes, you understand.”

“Whatever.”

Walt drew a pamphlet from his jacket, identical to the one Ms. Clarke had given Dean at the service center. “It’s straightforward. Number 1. Enforce human/sub-human boundaries. Don’t let it eat human food, use furniture, that sort of thing. Number 2. Maintain discipline. Make sure it understands there are consequences for misbehavior and always follow-through with them. Number 3. Prevent the acquisition of non-human skills. Reading, writing, and driving are the big ones. Number 4. Absolutely no access to weapons intended to inflict harm on a human, sub-human, or animal. You keep your weapons locked away, right?”

“I’m not an idiot,” Dean said, and he wasn’t. He kept his weapons in a safe in his closet and told Sam that touching the safe was one of the few things that would lead to punishment. Sam had nodded vigorously. He usually gave the entire closet a wide berth.

“Of course not,” Walt agreed easily, “Which brings us to Number 5. Maintain its licenses and registration. Get its barcode and collar checked at least once a year, update any new licenses, and immediately transfer its title if you sell it.”

“All pretty obvious,” Dean said, “Now why'd they send someone all the way from Denver to tell me something that Ms. Clarke from Sunnydell could have told me a month ago.”

“Fair enough,” Walt said, “Although, now more than ever, it’s important to follow these guidelines to the letter.”

Dean narrowed his eyes, “Why’s that?”

“It’s the main reason I’m here,” Walt said, “We have reason to believe Azazel is gathering an army from within the hybrids’ ranks.”

“He’s what?” For the first time, Dean didn’t want to drop-kick Walt out the door, “How?”

“We’re not sure yet. We don’t believe it’s a general movement. Instead, there are a handful of hybrids—three that we’ve found so far out of millions—that have developed special abilities.”

“Like what?”

“Visions, telekinesis, electrocution,” Walt said. “Did you hear about that hybrid that slaughtered its master’s entire family several months back?”

Dean nodded, “Yea, tortured them to death with a kitchen knife. Nasty stuff.”

“Extremely,” Walt nodded, “What the public doesn’t know is that it did all that with its mind.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Wish I was. We can’t go public with it, of course. We’re talking about half a needle in a very large haystack. It would cause mass hysteria, destabilize the stock market, people killing each other’s hybrids, everything.” he gestured for Sam, who shuffled forward and began pouring more lemonade with trembling hands. The glass overfilled, spilling liquid onto the cookie sheet.

“Clumsy fuckers,” Walt said, pulling a small, metal device out of his pocket and pressing it against Sam’s shoulder. Sam jerked in pain, knocking over the glass.

Walt pressed the device against Sam’s shoulder again, this time keeping it there until Sam cried out and Dean stood, “My property, Walt.”

“Of course,” Walt agreed, putting a business card on the table and getting to his feet. "That's all I have to say. Figured I should let you know since you're gunning for Azazel, and your Daddy sacrificed his life to do the same. Professional courtesy, you know."

"Thank you," Dean said stiffly.

"Let me know if you hear anything about these demon soldiers.” Walt extended his hand.

Dean shook it briefly, “You do the same.”

“I’ll make sure I do,” Walt said before he turned and walked out the door.

 

Dean watched as Walt got into a nondescript government vehicle and drove away before turning back to Sam, who hadn’t moved.

“You can get up, Sam,” Dean sighed. Sam stood carefully, trembling like a colt and doing everything in his power to not look at Dean.

“I’m not mad about the drink,” Dean said, “The DSC scares plenty of humans, and this guy was a dick, even for them.”

“Thank you, sir,” Sam whispered.

“Lay down for a bit. I’ll clean this up.”

Sam suddenly looked up, horrified, “No sir, I—“ he stopped and seemed seconds away from tears. Dean guessed Sam didn’t know which was worse, saying no to Dean or letting Dean work.

“If I have to order you to rest, I will. There will be plenty of time to clean, and I know how to use a rag.”

“I . . .” Sam swallowed, “Thank you sir.” Sam curled beneath his blanket and Dean went to fetch a rag. When he returned, Sam’s eyes were closed, though Dean doubted he was asleep.

Not having to deal with Sam gave Dean time to think. So yellow-eyes was creating a private army of hybrid freaks and Dean didn’t know why or how he was doing it. The DSC almost definitely didn't have a clue either. Every hunter agreed the agency was 90% hybrid regulation, 10% red tape.

Dean needed Dad, but that wasn’t an option anymore.

Instead, Dean poured himself some whiskey and dialed a different number. 

"You alone Bobby? Good, 'cause I've got some news . . ."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize the first section of the chapter doesn't make much sense. Just hang with me. 
> 
> Also, sorry to anyone who got icked out by the animal cruelty and gore. The goals is to show how societies that oppress one group make the world inherently more violent and ugly for everyone and everything else.


	5. Silence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean's busy. Sam remembers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: repeated references to sexual assault; homophobic and sexist slurs.

_[The camera flicks back on. Sam’s seated at a different table. It’s darker than the first, except for a few places where the wood paneling is chipped, revealing the particle board underneath. The wall behind him is covered with bright purple wallpaper.]_

_“When was the last time someone forced you to have sex?”_

_[Sam shifts in his seat.]_

_“A few months after Dean bought me, or maybe a few weeks. It all runs together."_

_“Wait, really? How? Who was it?”_

_[Sam looks down, twisting his hands in his lap.]_

_“Dean can’t know about this, okay? They’re friends.”_

_[Silence.] “These interviews stay between us until you say so. No matter what.”_

_[Sam nods.]_

_“Her name was Mist—her name was Brenda. Dean left me with her when he went hunting.”_

* * *

 

Dean left the day after Walt came, and Sam rarely saw him over the next few months. He spent a lot of time with a hunter name Bobby, looking for Azazel.

Sam knew he should tell him, opened his mouth to say it a dozen times a day when Dean was home, but he couldn’t do it. Things were _okay_. For the first time in so, so long, things were okay. Besides, Sam didn’t know anything that would actually help Dean, and he trusted his master to kill him if he even thought about joining Azazel.

 _What did we agree about calling humans our masters?_ Jess’ voice rang in his head.

 _That’s just it, Jess._   _You’re only in my head now. And it’s because I’m less than you. You never deserved this. I do._

The Jess in his head never liked that answer, but by that point in the conversation, someone was usually ordering him to do something.

Brenda’s plan to rent him out worked brilliantly. There was always a list of people waiting for him to shingle their roof, replace their fence, repair their tractor . . . the list never ended. The work was always difficult and often required him to work alone under the unforgiving sun. He didn’t mind; the exhaustion helped with the nightmares.

Brenda was also a fair mistress, though not as kind as Dean, but no master was as kind as Dean. She expected more from him, but she wasn't cruel or sadistic.

He was more surprised than he should have been when she demanded what humans always demanded.

She had locked him in his cage for the night, but instead of immediately going to watch TV in the living room like normal, she considered him, tapping his cage thoughtfully.

“You said you’re licensed for pleasure?”

Sam’s stomach clenched, but he kept his voice steady. It was always worse when you showed fear. “Yes ma’am.”

Brenda nodded, tapping her finger a few more times before unlocking the cage, “Get out.”

It wasn’t so bad. Brenda just wanted something quick and satisfying. It wasn’t long before he was back in the cage. She even added extra feed to his bowl.

It wasn’t like the first time.

* * *

 

_“When was the first time?”_

_[Silence.]_

_“Sam, we can end the interview if . . .”_

_“He didn’t force me. He said doing it was the only way out of the mines.”_

_“And you said yes.”_

_“I’d forgotten what colors looked like. Everything was gray, except for the blood. And I had lost . . . I couldn't . . I was going crazy. I -I was . . . I would have done anything to get out.”_

_“He didn’t give you a real choice, Sam. It’s still rape. Do you understand that?”_

_[Sam looks away.]_

* * *

 

_They always collected hybrids for shipment in the middle of the night. Sam figured it was to keep them from saying goodbye, which struck him as needlessly cruel._

_Then again, humans were always needlessly cruel._

_He knew it was coming. He was taller than Rhee and already strong enough to help load cattle onto the line._

_That didn’t make it any better when it happened._

_A guard jabbed him with an electric prod, “Get up!”_

_Sam gritted his teeth and didn’t move, so the guard dragged him to the floor, giving him an extra dose of the prod for his trouble. He struggled as the guard pulled him to his feet, because he could, because he had to do_ something. _Eventually a second guard came over, pressing the prod to his chest while the first zip-tied his wrists. Sam bit his tongue and refused to scream._

_“Feisty one,” the second guard said as they dragged him to the courtyard, which was already filled with dozens of guards and at least a hundred other hybrids of his general age and height. They were binding them by their collar to a chain as thick as Sam’s wrist that stretched across the entire courtyard._

_“Pain in the ass,” the first replied as he hooked the chain to Sam’s collar so that was just a couple hand lengths away from the boy in front of him._

_Sam must have been the last one—probably because he fought--because after the guard hooked him into place, yet another guard shouted into a megaphone._

_“Alright you demonic pieces of shit. We’re gonna march you out and load you up. If one of you fights or falls, you’re all punished.” She nodded, and the guard who had brought Sam grinned and pressed his prod to the chain._

_The entire line flinched and gasped as one. The guard grinned, “I love that bit.”_

_“Now!” the guard with the megaphone shouted, “March!”_

_It wasn’t far to the truck, and they managed to make it without punishment. It took much longer to load them in, since they scanned each hybrid’s barcode before shoving them up the ramp. The truck seemed to shrink the closer Sam shuffled to it._ They can’t fit us all, _he thought._ They can’t possibly fit us all.

_The guards didn’t seem worried, just kept shoving more and more hybrids in. When the guards tugged his tattooed wrist under the scanner and marched him up the ramp, Sam couldn’t see a hint of free space. The guards shoved him in, back first, forcing him against the mass of flesh so tightly that he was standing more on another hybrid’s feet than on the truck bed. The guard leered at him and secured the end of the chain to the side of the truck, “Have a fun trip, demon shit.”_

_As the truck door slid down, Sam hoped Rhee forgot about him soon._

_Time didn’t exist in the truck. The wind whistled through tiny vents in the ceiling that nominally prevented them from suffocating to death. Except they were crushed, pounded together in a mass of sweaty flesh. Curses, screams, tears, retching, and sounds of pure misery with no easy name echoed off the walls. Sam shut his eyes, longing for silence._

_At the same time, he couldn’t help imagining blue seas, purple mountains, green grass, yellow birds: things Rhee promised were real even if she had never seen any of them herself._

_Maybe they were being sent to a farm. That would be alright._

_When the truck finally stopped and the door opened, Sam only saw cement._

_“Out!” a guard tugged at the end of the chain and pulled Sam forward. He stumbled, limbs limp like the noodles some of the guards ate for lunch. The guard tugged again, and Sam fell to his hands and knees, barely swallowing the rush of bile that climbed his throat._

_The guard snorted, pulling Sam to his feet by the end of the chain, “Healthy bunch. Think they’ll last a week?”_

_“They’re from Walmart,” a second said as she scanned Sam’s barcode and shoved him down the ramp, “What do you expect?”_

_As the hybrids were slowly unloaded off the truck, Sam looked around. They were in an enormous, grey, windowless loading dock. Large metal doors stood at one end of the room. Sam looked behind him, hoping to catch a glimpse of the sky._

_A gloved hand slapped his face, “Face forward, you shit."_

_They shuffled slowly forward as each hybrid was marched down the ramp, drawing steadily closer to the large, metal doors. Sam couldn’t decide if he wanted time to speed forward or stop completely, not even when a guard called from the back, “That’s all of them. And they’re all alive.”_

_“That’s a first,” the guard who had hit Sam said. He raised his voice, “Let’s go demon shits!”_

_They stumbled towards the door, which opened when one of the guards touched an ID card to a keypad and entered a number. Sam wondered vaguely if he’d recognize all the numbers. He knew 2, 7, and 9 from his ID number, and Rhee had 1, 7, and 5, but he hadn’t been able to figure out the rest, or even how many written numbers there were. Since numbers went on forever, there must only be a small set of numbers that were rearranged to make larger and larger ones. Rhee had smiled at that and mussed his hair, “Aren’t you a smart one?”_

_The metal doors opened, and they were marched down several empty hallways then through another heavy metal door into a long, narrow room made entirely of cement. Drains dotted the floor in precise rows, and Sam want to cry at the thought of getting clean._

_There were many more guards in this room, so Sam figured they were also finally going to be untied._

_Sure enough, the guards detached the chain from each hybrid’s collar, cut through the zip-tie, and made each one stand over a drain. No one fought, since, like Sam, they all realized there were about to get clean. Then other guards moved down the line, cutting the clothes from their bodies. Sam couldn’t decide if he relished being without his sweat and urine-stained clothes more than he hated being so exposed._

_“Well hello there, pretty boy,” One of the guards pulled his chin up, looked him up-and-down and licked his lips, “Aren’t you going to waste?”_

_Sam missed his clothes._

_“Scott!” A voice called, “Stop playing with the merchandise and start doing your job!”_

_Scott threw half a scowl behind him before winking at Sam, “I’ll see you soon, pretty boy.”_

_Sam wrapped his arms tight around his waist and stared at the floor, which is why he didn’t see the heavy hoses before a blast of scalding water caught him full in the chest. He gasped and closed his eyes as another blast of water hit him before moving onto the next hybrid, who yelped and fell. Another guard followed the one with the water, spraying Sam down with soap and scrubbing his hair with a coarse brush. He stood there, suds sticking to his body until the guard with the water hose blasted him again. Finally, each hybrid was handed a sturdy, gray jumpsuit before being marched out the other side of the room, down several more hallways, and through steadily heavier doors before they arrived in yet another windowless, cement room, this time full of metal bunk beds stacked three high._

_“Oh, thank God,” the hybrid behind Sam whispered._

_Sam was too tired to answer, too tired to notice the bunks were just boards with no bedding. He just climbed to the bed the guard jabbed at, and immediately fell asleep._

_It felt like just minutes later when a deafening bell echoed through the room. Sam got up mechanically and followed the other hybrids to yet another door that opened up to a massive mess hall._

_Time had ceased existing for Sam in the truck and the windowless building, but it must have been over a day since he ate. He was vibrating with hunger by the time a guard scanned his code and let him into the mess hall. He grabbed his bowl of feed and cup of water, getting his code scanned each time to prevent him from coming back for seconds. He sank onto the bench of the nearest table and began shoving the feed into his mouth. There were undoubtedly rules and patterns he’d need to figure out: who sat where, the power structure among the hybrids, which guards to avoid. What the fuck he had been brought here to do. Right now, though, he was too hungry to care._

_“Just arrived?” a low, amused voice asked._

_Sam looked up. A large woman, almost his height, stared at him with raised eyebrows. She had a powerful chin, dark hair, and small eyes. Her gaze was piercing, however, and Sam found himself grateful her eyes weren’t larger._

_Sam just nodded and drained half his water._

_“Makes sense,” the woman said, “The cave in last week killed what, 50?”_

_“At least,” another woman to Sam’s right said._

_“Ca-“ Sam swallowed, “Cave in? This is a mine?”_

_Everyone around him laughed._

_“He’s real new!” the second woman barked, “Of course this is a mine, kid.”_

_“What are we mining?”_

_“Coal,” the large woman said, wriggling her eyebrows again, “We’re fueling America, you and I. Think that earns us a bigger breakfast. She glanced at Sam’s empty bowl._

_The bell rang again, and the several hundred hybrids rose and began forming into lines along the length of the large wall._

_“Come on, kid,” the first woman said, “Might as well show you the ropes. Maybe you’ll last more than a few months.”_

_The woman introduced herself as Maria. She had given herself the name when after Maria the mother of God appeared to her in a dream._

_“Before that, my master called me Kay,” she snorted and lifted her wrist in Sam’s direction, “Apparently there’s a K in here somewhere, whatever that means.”_

_“It’s a letter,” Sam said, “It makes words.”_

_Maria shrugged, “Anyway, Maria visited me and said God saw our suffering and He was going to send us a new Moses. Said I just needed to have faith a little longer.”_

_“Moses?”_

_“You don’t know Moses?” Sam shook his head._

_“Moses was a prophet of God. His people were slaves, but he freed them all and led them to the Promised Land. And it’s gonna happen again. We’re gonna get our own Moses.”_

_The second woman (“B, because I’m not a show-off,”) snorted, “What she fails to mention is that her last owner was a pastor. She heard crazy Jesus shit all the time.”_

_“Crazy shit about how Jesus was gonna send Moses to free us all and that humans are gonna pay for what they did?” Maria shot back._

_B just rolled her eyes. Sam suspected they’d had this argument many times._

_The guards marched them out of the mess hall, handing each of them a thick hat with a light on it as they left and then splitting them into four groups._

_“There are four entrances to the mine,” Maria said, “Used to be five, but the fifth caved in completely a while back.”_

_“How long have you been here?”_

_Maria shrugged, “Longer than most. But there’s not exactly a way to tell, is there?”_

_Sam felt stupid admitting he had hoped otherwise,“Guess not.”_

_The mine was a web of seemingly random tunnels of dark rock. The air was wet and heavy with the workers’ breath, and within the first few seconds, fine, black dust lined Sam’s mouth._

_“No use,” Maria said as he tried to spit it out, “That stuff’s gonna stick to every orifice in your body and travel straight down your lungs and turn them black too.”_

_They couldn’t speak much more over the roar of machines and pick axes pounding at the rock. Maria handed him a pick and told him where to start hitting. The grey rock slowly crumbled into a pile in front of him. The only way Sam could tell time had passed was by the amount of sweat clinging his jumpsuit to his body and exhaustion that increasingly tugging at his body._

_It was only when the bell rang again and they were herded into the large metal elevators that took them . . . closer to the surface that Sam realized he had no idea what coal looked like._

_“It’s jet black,” Maria said, shoving feed into her mouth with dust-coated fingers, “Pretty obvious when you see it. We don’t find it often, though.”_

_“Then, why are we here? Isn’t that just a waste of money?”_

_The table broke into laughter again, though this time Sam couldn’t figure out why._

_“They’re not making money off the coal, kid,” Maria said, “They stopped producing enough to turn a profit years ago.”_

_“Then why . . .”_

_“Because each of these bozos,” B glared at the guards lining the wall and serving food, “Needs a job. The government pays the mines to stay open. They pay these jackasses to guard us then go and spend their blood money on fast food and shit. We’re the industry, kid.”_

_“But . . .” Sam didn’t understand. The meat processor at least made sense. They killed and butchered the cows for humans to eat, “But it’s dangerous. You said 50 people died in a day.”_

_“We’re not people,” B said, “No one gives a fuck about us. Not when Walmart can send another 100 hybrids with half a moment’s notice.”_

_T_ _he wrath of heaven’s going to rain fire down on them all,” Maria said, “I swear to God.”_

_Life quickly eased into a steady rhythm. Waking, eating, working until Sam thought his muscles were going to slip off his bones and his lungs were going to crawl out of his mouth. Eating again before finally collapsing on his bunk to sleep._

_After ten shifts, they were hosed down the same way Sam had been when they first arrived. This time, though, Sam went with Maria and B, since he had spent nearly every moment with them since that first morning in the mess hall. The guards didn’t give a shit who they got cleaned with, where they slept, or which part of the mines they worked in, so long as their codes scanned in on time._

_It hadn’t occurred to him that he’d see them both naked._

_“It’s alright,” Maria winked when Sam gaped at her breasts, “You can look. ‘Fraid you can't touch, though. I like my meat curved.” She slapped B’s ass, and B rolled her eyes._

_“Well hello pretty boy.” Sam froze, turning to meet the voice. He felt Maria and B still beside him._

_Scott drew near, leering at him again, “You hanging out with the cunts, pretty boy? Bet that makes you a faggot. Are you a pretty faggot?” He cupped Sam’s face in his hand, brushing his thumb across Sam’s lips, “I bet a pretty faggot like you can show a guy like me a real good time.”_

_Sam couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, could only stare at Scott’s watery blue eyes._

_The leer widened, and Scott brushed Sam’s lips with his thumb again, “We’ll have to see about that, won’t we pretty faggot?” he said and walked away._

_“He chooses a couple of kids at a time, any gender,” B said, as she and Maria sat on either side of him after the guards had marched them back to the dormitory, “As young as he can find them.”_

_“Fucking pervert,” Maria squeezed Sam’s hand. He gripped it back._

_“What does he do?”_

_“Terrorizes them, gropes them, like he did you,” Maria said._

_“But sometimes he . . .” B began_

_“B!” Maria growled._

_“You’re trying to keep him in the dark? Protect him?” B rolled her eyes, “Take a look at where we are, Maria. The only way to protect him is to tell him.”_

_“You can tell me,” Sam said, “I want—I need to know.”_

_“Sometimes he takes them,” B said, “Pulls them aside and takes them somewhere. No one sees them again.”_

_“Oh God,” Sam pulled his knees up to his forehead and wrapped his arms around his legs._

_“We don’t know what happens,” B said, “Could be he reassigns them to somewhere that’s easier, safer. Someplace he can see’em clean more often. No need to think of worst-case scenarios, kid.”_

_“Besides,” Maria said, “It doesn’t matter. It’s not gonna happen to you. Not while we’re here.”_

_Without clocks or the sun, Sam quickly lost all sense of time. It just moved. They worked, sometimes even finding the jet-black rocks Sam now recognized as coal. They ate. They slept. When they felt up to it, he, B, and Maria would talk. Sam would tell Rhee’s stories and his latest theories on how letters and numbers worked. B and Maria would tell him about the human world._

_“Those cows you butchered for them can make some delicious food,” Maria said, “The pastor’s wife would cook steak every Sunday, but she always overcooked it. You’re supposed to still have some pink in the middle. Everyone knows so.”_

_“Our foodie,” B rolled her eyes, “Why don’t you talk about something you actually know about? Sam, have you heard of dogs?”_

_Often, fewer hybrids would return from the mines as entered them. Sam puked the first time he saw someone carrying a bloody body across his shoulders. Somehow, it was even worse than seeing the crazed hybrid at the factory._

_“Surprised they were able to get him out,” B said quietly, “Usually we’re buried too deep.”_

_Scott loomed like a specter. Sam learned to switch his mind off when they were being washed, just let Scott’s hands and words wash over him. It was harder when Scott appeared where Sam didn’t expect him: in the mess hall, marching them to the mine, and one, horrible time in the barracks when he shoved Sam onto the lowest bunk of one of the beds, carding his fingers through Sam’s hair._

_“Hell’s gonna give him a hundred times whatever he gives you,” Maria said, holding him close while B stared down anyone that got near._

_Sam had nearly forgotten the smell of fresh air and the feel of the wind against his face when he realized he had developed several more layers of muscle, his skin was paler, and he was used to the coal dust constantly coating his tongue. He could sense the distant rumble of cave-ins, knew which pick to grab, which bunk to choose, which toilet was most likely to flush._

_“You’re a miner,” Maria said, “Congratulations.”_

_He wasn’t happy. Happiness was an entirely human experience. But things were okay. They were okay in moments when he could forget Scott, forget his aching bones, or the constant pit in his stomach at the thought of losing B or Maria. They were okay as long as he didn’t think about how he’d probably never see a color besides the blacks and greys of the mines again, how he was forgetting the color of Rhee’s hair, the sound of her voice. If he didn’t think too hard, if he forced himself to stay in the moment of watching B and Maria’s banter, listening to B’s crass jokes and Maria’s passionate Bible stories. If he thought about the times they rolled their eyes and called him a nerd for trying to figure out how many numbers there were or how coal could be used to make electricity, or when they laughed at one of his impressions of the guards, things were okay._

_Things were okay. Until they weren’t._

_The cave-ins were becoming more frequent. B said they had run out of things to dig and now were bringing the ceiling down on top of them. Maria frowned and rubbed her thumb over B’s hand whenever she said this. Sam tried not to think about it. There was nothing to do. At the very least, they worked so close to each other that if the ceiling did come down on top of them, they would die together._

_Except when the ceiling came down, Sam was getting a new bulb for his helmet’s light. He felt the ground shake, heard the distant rumble, and he knew, even as he turned and ran to check on them, that it would be too late, that it had already happened, because he was a miner, and he_ knew _._

_He ran anyway, and all he found was a pile of rubble covering the two people that made his life bearable._

_“Pretty faggot,” Scott sat beside Sam in the mess hall while Sam picked at his feed. Sam didn’t move. Didn’t react. He knew this was coming. He sat alone at meals and spent his time sitting in deserted corners of the mines where he knew the guards's cameras couldn't see him. He didn't speak. Not a single hybrid new his name. Of course Scott would come for him._

_“Aww. Are we sad pretty faggot? Are we sad the cunts are dead? You should be dead too, you know that?”_

_Sam stared at his bowl._

_“Don’t worry about it, though. You’ll be dead soon, too. You’ll be buried under those rocks like the cunts you loved so much. You’ll never breathe fresh air again.”_

_Sam couldn’t stop his flinch, and Scott laughed._

_He pressed his lips to Sam’s ear, “What if I told you,” he said, “That in twenty-four hours you could be breathing real air again. What would you do for that, eh pretty faggot?”_

_Sam looked up and stared around the mess hall with its walking corpses and its even greater number of ghosts. Twenty-four hours. He couldn’t remember what twenty-four hours meant, but he was willing to take it._

_He opened his mouth, voice raspy from disuse,“Anything."_

_Scott zip-tied his hands and led him through the maze of hallways and metal doors until they arrived at a small office._

_“Another one?” an office worker said from behind a computer._

_“This one’s special."_

_The office worker rolled his eyes, “Whatever,” and scanned Sam’s code._

_Scott pulled Sam down several narrower hallways to what Sam realized were the guards’ living quarters, which were as grey and windowless as the rest of the complex. Scott dragged him to the small bedroom and shoved him to his knees._

_“It goes like this, pretty faggot. I have a buyer in Saint Louis who’s always looking for more pretty hybrids for his pretty brothel. But I’ve got to know they’d be any good, first. Can’t ruin my reputation with the guy, can I?”_

_When Sam didn’t respond, Scott slapped him, “Can_ I _pretty faggot?”_

_“No sir.”_

_When Scott finally had enough, he got up and pulled his boxers on, leaving Sam curled and naked on the bed._

_“That was fun, wasn’t it, pretty faggot?”_

_“Yes sir,” Sam was covered in every bodily fluid he knew of, both his and Scott’s. He hurt in ways he hadn’t thought possible, and darkness was tugging him down to unconsciousness._

_“You sure are special," Scott grinned, "Wait until everyone hears I got the first piece of you.” Scott's eyes turned black as coal._

_Sam couldn’t speak, just stared at the demon until the world mercifully went black too._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pinky promise there are happier times in the next chapter.


	6. Vision

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean learns more about Sam's past. Sam takes some risks.

Dean could barely believe it the first time he came home and Brenda handed him a stack of checks.

“You’re kidding.”

Brenda grinned, “Not even a little. And we’ve still got orders coming in. It’s beginning to gain a reputation.”

For some reason, Dean’s mouth puckered around Brenda calling Sam "It," but he just smiled and said, “Guess I wasn’t the idiot Farmer Johnson thought after all.”

 

The extra cash made Dean’s work a lot easier. He still helped people, of course, killed monsters when he found them, but he didn’t have to spend half his time chasing commissions from private citizens or the DSC. Instead, he focused on tracking every half-lead on the yellow-eyed-demon and its plans for a hybrid army.

He didn’t find much. The few demons he captured gave him snarky, non-answers, enough to confirm that something was going on, but no useful information.

When he was in the area, money was getting low, or he wanted a home-cooked meal, he headed back to Idaho, where he was greeted by a grinning Brenda, a silent, but increasingly indispensable Sam, and a stack of money.

“You sure are making my life a hell of a lot easier,” Dean said as Sam set a slice of homemade cherry pie in front of him, about three months after Brenda began renting him out.

‘I’m glad sir.”

“And not just because of the pie, I mean. Even though it’s awesome.”

“Thank you, sir.” Sam turned back to the counter and began rinsing dishes.

Sam didn’t understand, but Dean wanted him to, for the same, inexplicable reason he still cared if Sam was happy, or at least content.

“Sam, look at me.”

Sam turned and met Dean’s eyes for a moment before the fell to the floor, then up at Dean, then back down again, “Yes sir?”

“What I’m trying to say is the work you’re doing here is giving me the space to focus on other things. Very important things.”

“Azazel, sir.”

Dean frowned, “You remember that name?”

Sam shifted, the way he always did when he thought he made Dean angry, “It’s important for a hybrid to remember its master’s words sir, even though it will not speak them to anyone else.”

“I guess I have mentioned him a few times,” Dean said, carefully not thinking about how Sam just referred to himself as _it_ while Dean called the demon that murdered his mother _he_ , “What have you figured out?”

“He’s a powerful demon, sir, and you’re trying to find him before he hurts more people.”

 Sam didn’t mention the hybrid army, though Dean knew he must remember that part too. Dean was deciding whether to press that point when Sam looked up again, except this time, he held Dean’s gaze.

“I hope you find him, sir, and I hope you kill him.”

“You do?”

“Yes sir.”

“You don’t,” Dean frowned, “I don’t know, think they might give you a better shake?”

“I know they won’t, sir.”

“How?”

“They’ve,” Sam’s eyes resumed their usual position staring at the floor, “They’ve hurt me, sir.”

“They what now?”

Sam didn’t respond, just shifted again.

Dean rubbed a hand down his face, “Look, Sam, I hate asking. I really do, but this is the first time I’ve heard of demons targeting hybrids before, so I need to know what they did.”

For a long, long moment, Sam didn’t respond, and Dean was debating how much to push the issue when Sam whispered, “One . . . one made me have sex with him sir, and they killed someone I cared about.”

This time, Dean struggled to respond. Finally, he said, “Did these things happen at the same time?”

“No sir. The . . . the first happened when I was still in the mines.”

“And the second time?”

“The second time was at the brothel. A demon set the building on fire, and it killed . . .” Sam cleared his throat, “I couldn’t save her.”

“I’m sorry,” Dean said, and he meant it. Sam just nodded at the floor. When he seemed to decide Dean didn’t have more questions, Sam continued loading the dishwasher.

“Leave that for the morning, Sam,” Dean said, “Get some rest. You deserve it.”

To Dean’s considerable surprise, Sam didn’t argue, “Thank you, sir.” He crossed the kitchen in two steps, but stopped when Dean said, “It was different, right? What happened in the mine and the work at the brothel?”

Sam opened his mouth, but it was several, long seconds before he said, “Yes sir. It was different.”

Dean nodded, “Good night, Sam.”

“Good night, sir.”

Sam left the kitchen. Dean stared, suddenly nauseous, at his pie and tried to shake the certainty that Sam had just lied to him. 

* * *

 

“So, your hybrid’s met demons twice in just a couple years?” Dean could see Bobby frowning on the other side of the phone, “That’s more interaction than most humans will have with demons in their entire lives.”

“I know,” Dean said, “I’ve never heard of demons going after hybrids before, but I believe him.”

“I guess it makes more sense than we’d like to admit. Demons prefer easy targets, and hybrids are plenty easy. No one notices if a hybrid or two goes missing.”

“The article I found about it said no one died.” Dean had checked Sam’s title records and found the brothel in Saint Louis where Sam had worked. _For four years. Sam was raped every day for four years._ A couple more clicks had taken him to a local news article about the fire, concluding the blaze had been started by a small electrical fire near the kitchen.  _Over $120,000 of property damage resulted from the fire,"_  the article said, _"but there were no casualties._

Bobby seemed to read his mind.

“I sure as hell ain’t no sympathizer,” he said, “But I have to say some of the things we put those hybrids through . . . it makes you wonder if there aren’t some who’d follow the demons for lack of a better option.”

* * *

 

Dean expanded his search for supernatural activity to include places with large numbers of hybrids, but, as always, nothing came of it. He hadn't even found another demon in the two months following his conversation with Sam. The only progress he'd made at all was connecting with an old woman in Phoenix who claimed to have an unrivaled collection of demon lore. Dean had planned on driving to see her the next morning. Then Brenda called at one-in-the-morning.  

“It stole a newspaper,” she said the moment Dean answered the phone.

“Hello to you too, Brenda.”

“ _Dean_. It stole a newspaper,” Brenda’s voice climbed an octave with every word, “It was trying to read!”

Dean rubbed his eyes. He’d finished off a poltergeist a few hours before and had been _really_ looking forward to some sleep. Brenda was right, though. There was a chance this was serious.

“I just finished a job near Portland. I’ll be there by early afternoon.”

Brenda was waiting by his driveway when Dean pulled in. Her arms were wrapped around herself, and she was as pale as the victims he’d been with last night. What the hell had she found him with?

“You alright?” he asked as he got out of the car.

Brenda nodded, “I’ve got it in its cage.”

“Did he try to hurt you?”

She shook her head, “No. Nothing like that. It’s just been so well behaved. I don’t know what was going through its mind. It _knows_ being found with reading materials means serious consequences.”

Ah hell.

“Have you punished him already?”

“A little,” Brenda held up a copy of the pamphlet people kept trying to get Dean to read, “I didn’t whip it or anything, but the DSC says clear, swift discipline is essential. I locked it up without feeding it, and I’ve been shocking it every hour or so. All the hybrid ownership blogs agree that should be the minimum, but since it’s yours, I didn’t want to overstep my bounds.”

Dean didn’t know what to do with any of that information, wasn’t sure if he needed to punish Sam more, or if Brenda was overreacting. “You still got what he was trying to read?”

Brenda nodded, “I’ve got it inside.”

When they got inside, Dean saw Sam pulled up tight in a ball against the back of the cage, face hidden in his knees. He glanced up briefly when they entered before burying his face back down.

“It had this,” Brenda shoved the paper at Dean. It was just a headline and picture.

Jessica Chapman Wins US Open Grand Slam

Below it was a picture of a woman screaming in triumph and a couple lines from the article describing the winning match.

“I see,” he said.

“I know it’s not much, but that’s probably just because it didn’t know what to look for. It might have thought this was a section on foreign affairs or supernatural containment.”

“That’s true,” Dean glanced at Sam, who still had his face in his knees, “I’ll take him home and talk to him, decide what to do next.”

Brenda frowned, clearly worried he wasn’t taking this seriously enough, but bent down and unlocked the cage.

“Come on out, Sam,” Dean said.

Sam obeyed. Brenda had cuffed his hands, and he moved gingerly, probably a mixture of hunger, lingering pain, and exhaustion. Dean pulled him to his feet, keeping a tight grip around his arm because this _was_ actually serious . . . and perhaps because he was worried about Sam falling over.

“Here you go,” Brenda handed Dean the remote and the handcuff keys, “I’m sorry for calling. I just didn’t know what else to do.”

“You did the right thing,” Dean said. Brenda nodded, chewing her lip, and Dean felt her anxious eyes on him and Sam the entire walk back across the street and into his house.

“Alright,” Dean pushed Sam to his knees in front of the couch and sat down, “Explain.”

“I’m . . . I’m sorry sir. I shouldn’t have.”

“No shit,” Dean said, suddenly pissed. His shoulder hurt from where the poltergeist had slammed him into the wall, he was running on no sleep, and now he was pushing back his trip to Phoenix because of a stupid tennis article. “Why’d you do it?”

“I . . . I don’t know sir.”

“I’m really not in the mood to be lied to by my hybrid.” Dean took the remote to Sam’s collar out of his pocket. Brenda had left it on the highest setting.

Sam stared at the remote for a moment then said, “I just liked the picture, sir.”

Sam jerked and screamed, and for a brief moment, Dean wondered what was wrong before he realized his thumb was pressing down on the remote’s button.

He hastily lifted his finger and Sam quieted, though still breathing heavily.

“This doesn’t need to be the big deal Brenda thinks it is,” Dean said, “I just need to know why you took this and what you think it says.”

For a long time, Sam didn’t open his mouth. Dean’s thumb was hovering over the remote again when Sam whispered, “Jessica. It says Jessica.”

“That’s right. Now why would you want something that says . . .” Dean broke off, all the anger rushing out of him, “Jessica. That was her name, wasn’t it?”

Sam nodded.

Dean looked back down at the article, “And ‘Slam,’ that’s almost ‘Sam.’ Did she call you that?”

“Everyone’s always called me that, sir.”

Sam was slumped on the floor chained, in pain, hungry, sleep-deprived, and, it turned out, heartbroken. The sight made Dean more exhausted than he’d ever been in his life.

Dean leaned forward and unlocked Sam’s cuffs, “You don’t have to kneel.”

Sam’s eyes flickered up to him, grateful in a way Dean knew he didn’t deserve. Then Sam sat, rubbing his wrists.

“How’d you learn to recognize her name?”

Sam’s hesitation was shorter this time, “We-we taught each other. We figured out our names, the alphabet, a few words.” He looked up with pleading eyes, “We never meant to hurt anyone, I swear. It’s not what mistress Brenda thinks. We were just . . . we wanted to know.”

_Jessica isn’t such an easy name to recognize on sight._   _Sam, maybe, since Sam’s been able to look at his bar code his whole life, but Jessica. . ._

“How’d you figure it out? What did you use to learn?”

Sam rubbed his wrists more vigorously, “Alcohol labels, receipts, stuff clients left behind. Jess used the back of one of the menus and a pen to keep track of all the letters we found and the sounds. C was the hardest. It took us ages to figure out it could sound like two different things. Before that, we spelled her name with a K.”

He stopped and went still, clearly having said more than he intended. Dean understood why. Technically, he should be punishing Sam for this, should be beating or electrocuting him to a crisp. But Dean could imagined Sam curled in a corner with a faceless woman, probably barely more than a child, like Sam had been, painstakingly copying letters from a receipt onto a dirty piece of paper, in their own, tiny world, away from the constant sounds and smells of alcohol, smoke, and sex.

“Alright,” Dean said finally, “Well, I obviously don’t have to tell you to never tell anyone else what you just told me.”

“Yes sir. I’m . . .”

“Sam, I swear to God if you apologize again, I’m gonna change my mind and actually punish you.”

“I . . . you’re not going to punish me sir?”

“No, I’m not,” Dean said, “Now, neither of us have gotten enough sleep, so I’m going to go to my room. You’re going to get yourself something to eat, and we’re both going to pretend the last ten minutes never happened. If Brenda asks, I hung you by your wrists or something.”

“Y-yes sir,” Sam said, and Dean really, really hated the mixture of awe and relief on his face just because Dean only hurt Sam one more time (and Dean already felt guilt crawling in his gut about that).

“Awesome,” Dean said, and stood, “Here you go,” he handed Sam the newspaper clip, “Don’t let me see it again.”

“I . . . y-yes sir.”  Sam took the clipping with trembling hands and pressed it to his chest, “Thank you, sir.”

Dean’s last thought as he sank into sleep minutes later was that he hoped Jessica hadn’t looked anything like Mary Winchester.

* * *

 

That year, Dean invited Bobby over for Thanksgiving.

Hunters, as a rule, weren’t much for holidays, Dean and Bobby included, but Brenda was visiting her brother in Florida and made it clear she didn’t want to bring Sam.

It had taken some cajoling to get Brenda to resume their arrangement at all. Dean was forced to go into a long explanation about how Sam had just been interested in the picture but Dean had severely punished him anyway. In the end, Brenda had agreed, but she was clearly more anxious about him after that. Dean knew Sam would leave the newspaper clipping at Dean’s and not steal any more. Hybrids may be dumb as shit overall, but Sam had more sense than most humans Dean met.

Bobby, for his part, was more than happy to enjoy a home-cooked meal.

They kept things quiet. Dean picked Bobby up from the Boise airport the afternoon before Thanksgiving, and they spent the afternoon and Thanksgiving morning talking, sometimes even about things besides hunting, and watching the game while Sam worked his magic in the kitchen, somehow cooking the enormous meal without asking for another trip to the store, something Dean considered damn miraculous.

“Sam, how’d you remember how to make all this without reading any recipes?” Dean asked as Sam served them both chocolate and cherry pies with a bowl of homemade whipped cream.

Sam frowned, “I don’t understand, sir.”

Dean smiled, strangely proud of them both. He was trying to get Sam to understand that instead freaking out and expecting punishment every time Dean asked him a confusing question (like _are you happy?)_ Sam could just answer, “I don’t understand.”

“I mean that I need to look at the instructions five times to microwave a frozen dinner, so how did you remember how to make all of this?” Dean gestured around the kitchen.

“I . . . I just knew I needed to remember sir.”

“That’s it? Seriously?”

“It’s not as crazy as it sounds, Dean,” Bobby said.

“Really? Because that sounds pretty damn crazy.”

“That’s just cause you’ve learned to rely on reading. Back before everyone could read, humans could remember things that complicated too. Hell, most of the lore in our books is stuff people heard and memorized over and over again until someone finally had access to a pen. Some of the Greeks even thought books were bad for learning.”

“Huh,” Dean said, “Guess the Greeks would have thought you were smarter than us, wouldn’t they, Sammy?”

 Bobby rolled his eyes, and Sam muttered, “I’m sure they wouldn’t have thought that, sir.”

But he smiled the rest of the night.

 

Dean dropped Bobby off at the airport the next morning before watching a couple mindless hours of TV.

“God, I wish I could bring you on the road,” Dean said for the thousandth time as Sam handed him a plate of leftovers and beer for lunch.

Sam smiled, but the smile quickly turned into grimace. Sam dropped the plate, reaching for his head and gasping in pain.

“Sam?”

Sam had dropped to his knees into a mound of turkey and cranberry sauce, cradling his head in his hands before Dean finally remembered.

Sam had seizures.

This didn’t look like a seizure, more like the migraine from hell. Still, Sam was clearly in agony.

“Sam! Hey! Is there something I can do? Something you need? Sam!”

Sam looked up, tears of pain glittering in his eyes, “Sir, master Bobby’s in danger.”

 

Dean cuffed Sam’s hands. He felt a little bad, since Sam was clearly still in pain, but Walt had also said yellow-eyes was trying to recruit an army of x-men-like hybrids.

Then he Bobby, called any other hunter that might be in the area, called Bobby again. And again. And again.

Sam hadn’t seen much. Bobby. A liquor store. A demon blowing a hole through Bobby’s chest.

Finally, forty-seven minutes after Sam’s vision, Bobby picked up.

“Dean, what’s wrong?”

“Bobby, where are you?”

“Picking up my week’s supply of jack. Why—“

“There’s a demon! Get the hell out of there!”

“What the--- _shit_!” Dean heard the unmistakable sound of a gunshot. Of a phone clattering to the ground.

“Bobby! Bobby! You there! Bobby!” Dean kept repeating the name because he would not, could not believe the old man was gone. Not now. Not like this. He kept shouting Bobby’s name. Across the room, Sam watched him with wide, horrified eyes. Dean looked away. He couldn’t deal with Sam right now.

“Bobby!”

“I’m here,” a gruff, winded, but undeniably _alive_ Bobby said, “Needed to exorcise the bastard immediately. He was a strong fucker, and there wasn’t much to hold him down with. Now how the hell did you know to call?”

Dean looked at Sam, whose eyes had snapped back to the floor. Blood trickled from his nose.

“You need to come back to Idaho.”

 

While Bobby drove back to the airport, Dean tied Sam to a kitchen chair and laid down a salt ring around him. Sam, of course, didn’t fight, but Dean wasn’t about to take chances.

“Talk,” he growled, unsheathing a knife and tapping it against his knee.

“They started as nightmares,” Sam said, eyes fixed on the knife, “Then it started happening in the daytime. Farmer Johnson recorded them as seizures. His brother said it would be better for tax purposes.”

“Yeah. I don’t give a fuck about Farmer Johnson.” Dean said, “What do you see?”

“I see people die,” Sam said, “I don’t know how long it is between when I see it and when it happens. The first time it was days, but I think it might be getting shorter.”

“Who do you see?”

“Strangers, usually. Humans. Hybrids. It’s always just flashes, images.”

“And you have no idea why you see who you see.”

“No, I . . .”

“Sam.”

“I didn’t,” Sam said, “And I’m still not sure, but the hybrid you and the man from DSC talked about. The one who killed his masters . . .”

“Yes,” the hand holding Dean’s knife twitched, and Sam flinched.

“I . . . I think I may have seen it. I just saw him holding the knife. Then I saw the bodies, so I didn’t realize . . .”

“Realize he’d done it with his fucking mind,” Dean growled. “Okay then, what do you know about Azazel?”

“Nothing,” Dean raised his eyebrows, and Sam’s eyes widened, the words tumbling out, “Nothing, I swear. There were rumors at the brothel that more and more hybrids were being killed by demons, but that’s all I heard until . . .”

“Until Walt came, right. Which reminds me, why didn’t you tell me this the second that bastard walked out the door?”

“I-I didn’t know anything else, s-sir. I hadn’t had another vision in months. And I,” he swallowed, “I didn’t want you to kill me, sir.”

“I see. And if you really didn’t know any of these other people, and you didn’t know anything about Azazel, how did you know these visions were true?”

Sam didn’t respond.

“Answer me,” Dean growled.

“Because . . .” Sam spoke slowly now, as if each word hurt, “Because I dreamed about Jessica’s death days before it happened.”

“Excuse me?”

“She was the first one. My first vision. I-I thought it was a nightmare, so I didn’t warn her. I didn’t try to stop it, and now she’s dead. She’s dead because of me.”

Dean’s throat tightened, but he refused to let his voice betray any compassion, “What happened?”

“I . . .” Sam closed his eyes, as if trying to will the memory away, “I saw her . . . on the ceiling. . ."

Dean froze.  _What_ _the fuck?_

Fortunately, Sam seemed too lost in the memory to notice. "She was dripping blood, and then the ceiling caught fire."

_What the fuck. What the fuck. What the fuck. What the fuck._

"I . . . I tried to reach for her, but Brady, one of the masters at the brothel, he pulled me away, dragged me outside as if I was nothing. I screamed for Jess. Screamed for him to let me go, but he just hit me, and he said . . . he said . . .”

“He said what, Sam?” Dean felt like a cartoon character that had been hit by an anvil. Everything seemed distant and out of focus. Everything except Sam. 

Sam who was shaking his head, refusing to speak, “Please sir. Please.”

_Oh hell no._

Dean slammed his fist on the kitchen table, and Sam’s eyes snapped open, “He said what, Sam!”

Sam took a shuddering breath, “He said, ‘we’re not done with you, yet, Sammy’ and his eyes turned black.”


	7. Jess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She changes everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW Non-graphic references to forced prostitution and sexual assault

_“Tell me about Jessica.”_

_“She was perfect. She was smartest person I’ve ever known. She was beautiful, funny, kind, she didn’t care who had—_ what had _—been inside me.”_

_“You loved her.”_

_“More than anything.”_

* * *

_The first thing Sam learned about working in a brothel was that he got even less food than in the mine._

_“No one wants a fat whore,” said Brady, the human who handed out the hybrids’ food, when Sam stared at the tiny portion in his bowl, “You came from the mines?”_

_“Yes sir.”_

_“Well, you won’t be getting as much food, but you also won’t die in a cave-in or cough your lungs out so,” Brady shrugged, “It could be worse. And here,” he added another scoop of feed to Sam’s bowl, “Consider this a welcome present. Just don’t let my boss see.”_

_“Brady’s alright, for a human.” A hybrid sat next to Sam and began eating, “He works here part-time to pay for college. I think he wants to become an English professor or something.”_

_“Oh.” Sam looked at the hybrid. He thought she might be his age, with bright blue eyes and wavy blonde hair. She was stunning, and she wanted to talk to him. Sam didn’t know how to deal with that. He hadn’t_ talked _to someone since Mel and B . . . but even if he desperately wanted someone to give a shit about him again, he was filthy. He had been fucked by a demon barely a day before._

_“I’m Jessica,” she said, either unaware of or unconcerned by his anxiety._

_“S-Sam.”_

_“Sam,” Jessica smiled, “I like that. Where did you get the name?”_

_Sam held up his wrist and showed her his barcode, “There’s a S, an A, and a M in here. It’s what everyone’s always called me.”_

_Jessica peered at the barcode, “Guess it does.”_

_“You . . . you can read it?”_

_Jessica shrugged, “I like trying to figure out how to read. It passes the time when some moron’s fucking me, and I love doing things that would piss humans off.”_

_“Oh. That’s . . .” Sam struggled to find the words, and Jessica’s smile faltered._

_“I’m sorry,” she said, “I’m freaking you out. I know talking about this could get us in a lot of trouble but . . .”_

_Sam shook his head, “I’ve just never met another hybrid who liked figuring this stuff out too.”_

_Jessica grinned, “Neither have I.”_

_The conversation flowed easily after that. Sam briefly described life in the factory and the mines, glossing over how he'd ended up in a brothel thousands of miles away. Jessica had been at the brothel for six months. Sam didn't know what that meant but guessed it meant she hadn't been there for too long. Before that, she spent most of her life working at an organic restaurant._

_"Organic?" He blushed, "Sorry if that's a stupid question."_

_Jess shook her head, “It's not, believe me. It means everything’s super expensive because all the food and labor came from ethical sources. The chickens and cows got hugs before they were killed, the vegetables are all non-GMO, and the hybrids were shipped 50 at a time instead of a hundred. See?” She showed Sam her wrist, “That’s what the O at the beginning of my code means—certified organic. It even costs an extra ten bucks to fuck me.”_

_“That’s . . . ridiculous,” Sam said, “No offense.”_

_Jessica laughed, “None taken. It’s just a made-up name to make liberal humans feel better about profiting off a system that enslaves, tortures, and murders us for fun.” The laughter had disappeared, “I got an extra mouthful of “all-natural” feed a day and had enough room to sit when I was shipped from the breeding farm, so that obviously makes all of this,” she gestured  around at the rows of plastic tables where hybrids in various states of undress were shoving food in their mouths, “Okay.” She shook her head, “I fucking hate humans.”_

_“Maria,” Sam winced. It was the first time he’d said Maria’s name aloud since the cave-in, but he pressed on, “Someone I knew in the mines, said God appeared to her a dream and said that humans were going to suffer for what they’re doing to us. I like to think she’s right.”_

_“Well if God could hurry it along, that would be great.” Jessica said, standing with the rest of the hybrids as a bell rang. “Come on. It's time to get ready.”_

_The brothel was a large, ugly building in the center of the city. The entire building reeked of alcohol and sex and reverberated with the distant beat of loud music, which only grew louder as Sam followed Jess up a half-flight of stairs and into a massive dressing room filled with chipped mirrors, vanities covered with make-up and glitter, and racks of bright pieces of fabric that apparently counted as costumes._

_Brady and a couple of other humans were walking around with clip boards, giving hybrids assignments who would then change, or take off, their clothes and start huddling around the vanities, applying makeup and glitter and putting on costume jewelry._

_"New guy," Brady said, "Let's start you off easy waiting tables today. Just remember not to be too shy, or you won't get enough tips and the overseer will hand you your ass in the morning. Jess, how about you show him the ropes?"_

_"No problem." Jess tugged Sam towards a clothes rack and started flipping through costumes, pausing every once in awhile to hold one out in front of him. "The shirt's gotta come off I'm afraid to show off those mining muscles, but we'll compensate by giving you something with a bit more coverage at the bottom. She eventually handed him a pair of black jeans. "I think we can pull off a bit of a grunge look." Sam took the pants, staring stupidly at them while Jessica chose a black sequence bikini for herself. "If we coordinate our looks, it'll justify having us work together tonight."  She began to strip, frowning when Sam still hadn't moved._

_"There's a bit more coverage behind the clothes racks," she said, "but we gotta save enough time for hair and makeup. Brady's not kidding about the overseer."_

_Sam obeyed, ducking behind the clothes racks, shedding the shorts and t-shirt he had arrived in (that Scott had given him) and pulling on the jeans. They barely reached his hips, were a bit short around the ankle, and were so tight it felt like they'd been painted on._

_"You look good," Jessica said, rounding the clothes rack holding a studded belt and matching cuffs, "Put these on, but leave the belt loose, like you're in the process of taking it off."_

_Once again, Sam obeyed, numbly pulling the belt on and fastening the cuffs around his wrists while Jessica brushed and sprayed her long hair so that her curls tumbled perfectly down her back._

_"Okay, now the makeup," she pushed Sam into the chair of a nearby vanity and pulled some bottles, brushes, and tubes towards her, "You won't need much for this look. Just some foundation and liner to bring out your eyes. I can do it for you this time, if you would like."_

_Sam just stared at her._

_"You don't have any idea what I'm talking about, right?"_

_Sam slowly shook his head._

_Jessica sighed, but didn't seem angry, "Okay, I'm going to put some stuff on your face, okay? I'll show you how to do it yourself next time, but you definitely don't want to fuck this up, especially on waiter duty. I'll tell you what I'm doing as I go."_

_Sam nodded, still unable to form words._

_Jessica was as good as her word, explaining each layer of goo she was covering his face with, describing the best way to apply eyeliner and mascara as she carefully outlined his eyes in black, and carefully accenting the muscles in his chest with silver glitter. Then she repeated the process for herself, using even more bottles and powders until smokey greys, purples, and blacks swirled around her eyes, her lips were bright red, and touches of silver glitter shone on her face, along her collarbone, and down her torso._

_"And done," she finally said, setting a pair of boots in front of him and pulling on a pair of black stilettos._

_"What's out there?" the words escaped before Sam even realized he was saying them._

_Jessica sighed, "There's three levels to this hell hole. You've seen the basement, which is where we eat and sleep and prep the humans' food. The main floor has the dressing rooms and then the rest is for 'entertainment._ _Strip teases, lap dances, live scenes, that sort of thing. You and I will be waiting tables, looking pretty while we bring humans their food and drinks.The top floor is for sex. Most of it’s pretty vanilla, but there’s also a lot of people who like bondage or have bachelor’s parties. Those are . . . more painful.”_

_She stopped, frowning, “Sam? You okay?”_

_It was only then that Sam realized he wasn’t breathing properly. His chest felt like it was splitting open, and he was trembling so badly he doubted he could stand._

_“I’m . . . I’m . . .”  He should have just stayed in the mine. He should have gone to the darkest, most unstable corners that only the hybrids waiting for a cave-in would venture near. He should have gone there and waited to be crushed and buried with them. How could he have done this? How could he have agreed to come here? To let what Scott did happen over and over and over and over . . ._

_“Sam. . . .”_

_And over . . . and over . . ._

_“Sam!” someone was shaking him. Sam looked up to see Jessica frowning, “It’s okay. You’re okay. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have dropped it all at once like that. It’s just always worse when you don’t know what to expect.”_

_“I-i-it’s . . .”_

_“Don’t worry about talking right now,” Jessica said, “Just breathe, okay? Just breathe with me. In,” she breathed in, “And out,” she exhaled. “In . . . and . . . out. In . . . and . . . out.”_

_Sam followed along, at first sucking in huge gulps of air that hurt his lungs, but gradually his breathing matched Jessica’s steady rhythm._

_“Very good,” she smiled, “And don’t worry. All of us lose our shit at least once in the beginning.”_

_“Does it ever get easier?” Sam shuddered as the memory of Scott’s hands washed over him._

_Jess considered him for a moment, “What happens out there? No. You learn pretty quickly to turn your brain off and kind of float away during the worst bits, but it never actually gets easier.”_

_Sam looked down, his heart already pounding again._

_A gentle hand lifted Sam’s chin up so he was looking directly into Jess’ eyes, “But things do get in here and downstairs, whenever we’re away from all that shit. Because we all have each other, and that makes what happens out there bearable. We’re stronger than those fucking bastards, I promise.”_

_Sam stared at her. At the makeup and glitter covering her face and the ferocious fire in her eyes. At the softness of her touch and the hard set of her jaw._

_No matter what those bastards had done, they hadn’t beaten her. Sam knew, more surely than he’d known anything in his life, that they never would._

_“Okay.”_

* * *

  _Jess was right. What happened never got easier, but the more time Sam spent with her, the easier it became to forget that hell, if only for a little while._

_Sam wasn’t surprised to find that while Scott’s demonic strength might have made Sam’s introduction to the sex industry slightly more violent than most, Scott's tastes matched those of many humans. In fact, when Sam finally admitted to Jess what Scott was, she just nodded, “I don’t know if this makes it better or worse, but that’s not uncommon. Probably a dozen of us have had a run-in with a demon at one time or another.”_

_“Seriously? Then, how do humans not notice them? Why don’t hunters come and send them back to hell or something?”_

_“Why would the humans notice or care what demons do to us?” Jessica shrugged back, “Like you said. It feels about the same, right? Demons are smart. I figure killing us feels about as good to them as killing a human, and it’s ten times easier.”_

_Sam snorted, “Guess both our ancestors are major dicks.”_

_“Pretty much,” Jess agreed. “Now, some idiot snorting coke dropped half his business cards, and I managed to grab a couple. Wanna try spelling my name again?”_

_Jess kept a pile of menus, receipts, and other random scraps of paper hidden underneath a broken hunk of cement in the corner of the hybrid quarters._

_“I’ve got a lot of the numbers down,” she said, “Even though I still can’t tell the difference between 0 and “O.” What’s really confusing though is the letters. There are so many of them and the same letters seem to make different sounds, which is the most bullshit human thing I’ve ever heard.”_

_Whenever Sam and Jess were both not working they huddled together in a corner pouring over the scraps they were able to gather. It was slow going, since they only had the tattoos on their wrists, the mass of stained papers in front of them, and no one to ask for help. But it was also so much easier to work with someone, especially when that someone was Jess. Sam had always known that as much as Maria and B cared about him, as much as they protected him, they loved each other in a way they would never love him. The knowledge hadn’t upset him as much as it had confused him. He hadn’t understood love like that._

_He did now. Being with Jessica, even just knowing that he would be with her when the torture stopped, made life bearable. He could endure the degradation, the pain, the humiliation he suffered at the hands of a never-ending line of humans because he knew when he was finished, he could gather her in his arms as they tried to make sense of the jumble of letters they’d copied on the back of the brothel’s menu with a mostly-dead pen. At the same time, when he found her huddled in a ball, weeping silently in a corner, a surge of fury unlike anything he’d never known overtook him, and he wanted to tear the human who had done this to her apart with his bare hands, then the one before that, and the one before that, over and over again until every human who had ever touched_ _her was dead._

_That wasn’t possible, and, more importantly, it wasn’t what Jess wanted. Instead, Sam pulled her into his arms and held her until they both fell asleep._

* * *

  _Brady was, like Jess said, alright. In fact, he was the only human Sam had met that he didn’t hate._

_“I just need the extra cash,” he said, sharing a joint with Sam and Jess when they were all supposed to be cleaning the kitchen, “Help keep the lights on while I go a hundred thousand dollars into debt for my liberal arts degree.”_

_“A hundred thousand dollars,” Jess said, “That’s like a million blowjobs.”_

_“Like I said, I’m an idiot,” Brady agreed._

_“So, what do you spend all that money on?” Sam asked, “When you’re not getting high with a couple hybrids?”_

_“I spend it all to sit in a room and listen to old people ramble about the homoerotic subtext of 19 th-century American poetry,” Brady shrugged, “Makes me cultured, I guess, and makes it damn hard to get laid.”_

_“Dude, you work in a brothel,” Sam said, “Don’t you get an employee discount or something?”_

_Brady blew out a puff of smoke and shook his head, “Nah. I wouldn’t do that. Not to you guys.”_

_“Oh, he’s too good for us,” Jess said, snatching the joint out of Brady’s hand._

_“No, it’s not that,” Brady frowned at the table, suddenly solemn. Sam glanced at Jess, who shrugged._

_“I see what it does to you,” Brady said finally, “Having to be out there. You hate us all, and I gotta say, I don’t blame you. I kinda hate humans too, now.”_

_Sam exchanged a stunned look with Jess, while Brady kept frowning at the table._

_“Well, we don’t hate you, Brady,” Jess said, handing him back the joint. “You’re actually alright, for a human.”_

_Brady snorted, but he looked up with a smile, “Is it weird that that’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me?”_

* * *

 " _Okay, okay, here’s an idea,” Sam trailed a finger down the menu again, “We know at least some of these make the same sounds, what if every letter has two forms, a bigger one and a smaller one, and you’re supposed to use different forms of the letters depending on the context?”_

_“Like how you sometimes call me Jessica instead of Jess when your pretending you’re pissed at me,” Jess nodded, “I can believe that. It’s a stupid thing to do, though. Why make twice as many letters as you need?”_

_“Cause they’re humans,” Sam shrugged, “Remember that one client who brought two hybrids with him just to shine his shoes?”_

_“Fair. So, we need to figure out which letters go with which.”_

_“S is easy,” Sam said, “It’s just a smaller version of the bigger one. And Z is the same way.”_

_“Same with ‘O,’ and maybe P? Or is that B? Fuck. I always get those two confused.”_

_“Shit. I’m not sure. I think that’s a ‘P’ Pretty sure B has two lumps, right?”_

_“Like boobs!” Jess grinned, “Sam! That’s how we can remember the difference. B’s have boobs!”_

_“B’s have boobs. You’re right. I’m never gonna forget that.”_

_“B’s have boobs,” Jess laughed, “Booby B’s.”_

_She looked so happy, so silly, so fucking perfect. Sam smiled. Then he grinned. Then he laughed. Then he was laughing harder than he ever had in his life, laughing so much his stomach began to cramp, but neither of them could stop. They just kept laughing, and for the first time in his life, Sam forgot he was a hybrid. Forgot he was always hungry, always sore, always afraid._

This is okay _, he thought as they fell asleep in each other’s arms that night,_ This, is almost happy. I can survive the rest of this, so long as I have her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for you patience everyone. This chapter required a couple of overalls, and there's definitely more that could be done. But sometimes you just gotta post and be done with it. :P


	8. Thinker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean makes some rash decisions. Sam gets a hobby.

_When did Dean start teaching you to read?_

_After my vision about Bobby, after I started traveling with Dean. It’s the nicest thing a human’s ever done for me._

* * *

 

Because Dean was the most baffling human Sam had ever met, he didn’t kill him the second he found out what Sam was. Instead, he untied him and told him to make dinner. He obviously said it just to give Sam something to do, so Sam made lasagna, which was both time-consuming and made excellent leftovers. He then busied himself cleaning the house, doing his best to stay out of Dean’s way, which was easy since Dean had immediately retreated to his room.

When he ran out of things to clean, Sam curled on his cushion and tried to sleep, but every time he closed his eyes, he saw Jessica screaming on the ceiling or blood gushing from Bobby’s chest.

Eventually, Dean emerged from his room, “I’m getting Bobby from the airport. Stay there.”

“Yes sir,” Sam said, even though he knew Dean hadn’t heard.

 

He had half-fallen into another nightmare about Jess when Dean and Bobby got back.

“Easy son,” Bobby said when Sam shot up with a yelp, “It’s just us, and savin’ people don’t get them killed in our books.”

A little voice in Sam’s head wondered if the demons targeted Bobby because Sam knew him. Sam told the voice to shut up. Instead, he nodded, “Yes sir.”

“Right,” Bobby said as he and Dean sat on the couch. Bobby looked okay. The only mark from his fight with the demon was a bruise on his jaw, but that was normal for hunters. Something in Sam’s chest lightened. “Well, as you might imagine. We have a few more questions for you, and we need you to answer them honestly and with as much detail as you can.”

“Yes sir.”

“What visions have you had?”

“The first,” Sam took a deep breath, “The first was about Jessica.”

“We know enough about that one,” Dean said, “You can move on.”

“Thank you, sir,” Sam didn’t know how he would have described that night again, not even in the face of Dean and Bobby’s considerable anger. “The next was of a woman in a house. She was pounding on her window, and she . . . I didn’t see what happened, but I knew it was gonna be bad.”

“Alright,” Bobby said, “Any idea where this house was?”

“No sir.”

“Okay, then next?”

“Then I saw Max killing his masters.”

“Okay, we know about that one too.  Anymore?”

“I,” Sam took another deep breath, “I think I saw Azazel.”

 Bobby and Dean exchanged dark looks, “What was he doing?” Dean said.

“He was talking to a man. The man was giving up a gun in exchange for his son’s life.”

He had said something wrong. Bobby narrowed his eyes and leaned back. Dean growled and leaned forward, “What else did you see? Tell me every detail.”

“There wasn’t much else,” Sam looked between the two stone-faced men, “It kept going in and out, like the others. The man just kept saying ‘his life for the gun,’ and Azazel kept talking. He said, ‘If only your boys knew how much their Daddy loved them,’ and then he said there was one more thing he wanted almost as much as the gun.”

“And! What else?” Dean demanded when Sam fell silent.

“That was all sir. I swear.”

“You’re sure,” Bobby insisted, “You don’t remember anything else they said?”

“I’m sure, sir.”

Dean stood, “I need some air,” he said and stormed outside.

Bobby watched Dean go with a sigh, “Were there any others?” he said finally, “Besides the one you had about me?”  

Sam shook his head, “No sir.”

“Alright,” Bobby stood, “Well, I’d better haul Dean’s sorry ass out in from the cold.”

“Is he gonna be alright, sir?” the words spilled out without Sam realizing he’d said them.

Bobby raised his eyebrows, “I expect so.”

“That’s,” Sam hesitated, “That’s good, sir.”

Bobby frowned, “You’re a strange hybrid,” he said before following Dean into the night.

 

The next morning, Dean tossed Sam an empty duffel, “Pack your things. We leave in fifteen.”

Sam stared at him, the questions almost clawing their way out of his mouth, but he swallowed them back down. It took no time to stuff his spare changes of clothes and his feed into the duffel. Then he covered the uneaten lasagna in foil and set it in the freezer. He didn’t know how long they’d be gone, but Sam didn’t want to come back to a dozen kinds of mold in the fridge.

He was nearly finished bagging the rest of the turkey when he heard Dean and Bobby’s voices from the living room.

“You sure about this?” Bobby asked, “There’s a reason you haven’t taken him on the road until now, and there’s usually months between his visions.”

“What other choice is there? It’s not like Brenda could handle this.”

 “I could take him. Do most of my work from home anyway.”

Sam’s heart rate rocketed. Bobby might be worlds better than almost every other human Sam had met, but he couldn’t be as good to him as Dean was _._

Dean didn’t respond at first, and Sam couldn’t breathe. He was going to send Sam to Bobby’s because that was the only thing that made se—”

“No,” Dean said, “I’ll need to respond fast if he sees something. Besides, he always finds a way to make himself useful.”  

“Well let me know if you change your mind,” Bobby said, “And I mean it about calling every day, you hear?”

“I hear ya.”

“Good.” There was another, brief pause. Sam assumed the two men were embracing.

“Take care of yourself, and tell that hybrid of yours thanks again.”

“You too old man.”

There was the sound of the door opening and closing. Then Dean marched into the kitchen, “You finished yet?”

Sam hurriedly resumed stuffing pieces of turkey into the gallon bags, “Almost, sir.”

“Hurry up.” Dean snapped then left the kitchen before Sam could respond.  

Sam stuffed the rest of the turkey into bags, stuck it in the freezer, and went to the bathroom as quickly as he could. Dean stood by the open front door the entire time. When Sam got out of the bathroom, Dean walked out to the car without a word. 

Sam slung the duffel over his shoulder and followed.

He didn’t have a choice.

* * *

 

Sam was profoundly grateful to be away from Brenda, but being on the road with Dean still sucked. Sam now spent a vast majority of his time in the backseat of Dean’s car or alone in a hotel room with only the TV for company, which he wasn’t actually allowed to watch. If Dean found that Sam was deliberately hiding that rule from him, Sam was in for a world of pain. But Sam wasn’t going to willingly surrender his only distraction. Dean wasn't the only one plagued bydemon-related thoughts. 

The days stretched on and on. Sam soon lost all track of time, something he only every had a tenuous grasp of since the mines. He usually didn’t—couldn’t—leave the motel room for days at a time, and he spent most of his time watching the same daytime T.V. on endless repeat and cleaning the usually dirty motel room until Dean returned, at which point he would sit against the wall in silence so as not to disturb his master. He relished the days he could leave to do Dean’s laundry or pick up breakfast from the motel lobby and hated the nights when Dean didn’t come back. Most times, he was spending the night with a woman he met at a bar, but sometimes he was at the hospital getting fixed up from some hunt. He’d yet to have anything worse than a nasty cut or bruised ribs, but Sam wasn’t an idiot. Hunters died all the time, and Sam wasn’t sure what he’d do if Dean died. Bobby and Brenda wouldn’t want to deal with him, especially in the midst of their grief. He’d be sold, probably to a brothel or to Walmart, whichever got rid of him quicker where he’d be raped until he wasn’t pretty enough to turn a profit then put down or tortured to death in a Walmart lab. Or maybe they’d just do what Farmer Johnson suggested from the start and shoot him for the insurance money. 

It was in moments like these that Sam thought it might have been better for Dean to send him to Bobby or one of Dean’s other hunter friends. He’d even opened his mouth a few times to suggest that, but humans didn't respond well to input from their hybrids, especially not hybrids who had watched their master's father sell his soul to save his son's life. Even if Bobby or Dean hadn’t said that, their reactions to that vision made it damn obvious. It was—and Sam would never, ever tell Dean this—something of a relief to realize that. If Dean and John had been hunting Azazel anyway, perhaps that is why the demon went after Bobby. Perhaps it had nothing to do with him after all. Perhaps he had just done something good for once.  

It wasn’t like he had much opportunity to say anything to Dean anyway. Their previous conversations had never been long, but now Dean almost never looked at Sam and spoke to him even less. It felt a lot like after Dean had bought him, when Sam was injured and certain Dean was either going to kill him for fun or sell him back to Walmart. This was worse, though, because Sam knew what Dean could be like. He had become used to Dean’s compliments and smiles, encouraging Sam to ask questions and, best (and most terrifying) of all, asking for Sam’s opinion.

He would never forget when Dean asked if he was happy.

Now, Dean barely tolerated him. Sam assumed he was still alive because of Dean’s weird sense of obligation to protect his hybrids and because there was a chance Sam could keep one of the few people Dean cared about from dying.

Which was why Sam could barely believe it when Dean got back from a hunt one afternoon and dropped a heavy book with cartoon animals holding different letters on the cover and a package of pencils in front of him.

Sam stared. “Do you . . .” Sam mind whirled but had no idea what Dean might want from him, "What do you want me to do with this, sir?”

Dean rolled his eyes, “It’s a gift, Sam. For you.”

“I . . .” Sam opened the book. There were more cartoon animals, but there were also large, neat versions of letters with dotted lines where someone could practice writing them. He turned the page and saw a list of words and pictures.

Sam slammed the book shut, “I . . . I can’t have this.”

Dean rolled his eyes again, “I promise not to tell if you don’t.”

“Sir, please,” Sam had heard of this before. Masters giving their hybrids books or weapons then calling the DSC to have them punished or killed, “I’m sorry if I made you angry, but please don’t hand me over to the DSC. I swear I’ve told you everything I know.”

“I know that,” Dean rubbed his eyes and knelt in front of Sam. Sam flinched, but Dean didn’t start beating him or pulling his clothes off. He just set his hand on the book.

“I swear I am just giving you this book to help you learn how to read. There’s no ulterior motive.” He frowned, “Do people really do that, set their hybrids up then turn them over to the DSC?”

Sam nodded, “For reward money, sir.”

“Well that’s fucked up,” Dean said, “And that’s not what this is. This is . . . a thank you, and an apology.”

Sam was getting a headache, “I’m sorry sir. I don’t understand.”

“Of course, you don’t,” Dead sighed, but his frustration didn’t seem to be directed at Sam. “Look, I know that what you did—saving Bobby—that took a lot of guts. And I know it sucks, sitting alone in a hotel room for days. God knows I had to do it enough growing up. This way,” Dean gestured to the book, “This way, you’ve at least got something to do. I figure, if you can have crazy psycho visions without going dark side, it’s okay for you to learn to read nursery rhymes.”

Sam looked back down at the book, “I-I don’t know what to say,” he looked back up at Dean, “Thank you, sir.”

Dean looked away and got to his feet, “Just study up.”

 

Bobby, as always, was right. It made no sense for Dean to keep Sam with him. In the year since Dean had purchased him, Sam had only had one vision, so dragging him across the country on the off-chance he’d have another one soon made about as much sense as telling the DSC he had stumbled across one of Azazel’s special hybrids.

Sam had nothing to do. He never complained about it to Dean, but he could feel the boredom pulsing from Sam like waves. It wasn’t like Dean couldn’t relate, John had left him in a motel room or rent-by-the-week apartment with nothing but the TV and his online homeschool courses—designed for hunter families who moved too frequently to enroll in school-- for company.

Dean started sneaking out at 13. Sam didn’t have that option.

The smart thing, the right thing would have been for Dean to leave Sam at Bobby’s. Bobby would treat Sam well and would let Dean know the moment Sam had a vision. In the meantime, Sam would have plenty to clean and fix in that rundown house. He’d get plenty of fresh air instead of being cooped up in tiny motel rooms. Maybe Bobby would even teach him to fix cars.

Except every time Dean picked up the phone to tell Bobby he’d be dropping Sam off at Sioux Falls, he’d immediately set it down again. He had no reasonable explanation. It wasn’t like Sam made particularly good company, quite the opposite, since having Sam there meant he couldn’t bring women back to his room for the night. He was pretty useless to Dean on the road, which is why he’d originally left Sam at Brenda’s for weeks.

Dean didn’t pretend to be a deep thinker, especially not when thinking about anything beyond the next hunt usually led to thoughts about mothers burning on ceilings, fathers burning in hell, and brothers burning alive. Still, even he couldn’t avoid the fact that he was dragging this random hybrid across the country because he couldn’t let go of the last being on earth who saw his father alive. He also could barely look at Sam, much less speak to him for that exact reason.

He should let Sam go, not drag him even deeper into the mess of Dean's life. But Dean was a selfish asshole, so he didn’t.

So when Dean saw the workbook while wandering the local minimart, looking for beer for himself and feed for Sam, he thought _it’s the least I can do_ before he grabbed the book and a pack of brightly colored mechanical pencils.

It was only when Dean went to pay that he realized he was technically breaking the law. It probably wasn’t prison-worthy, but it would definitely come with a hefty fine, and brutal beating for Sam. Although, if the DSC found out about the visions, they’d slow-cook Sam’s ass.

All things concerned, a stupid workbook was the least of their problems, and fuck it, Sam deserved to enjoy himself once in a while. Dean wasn’t giving him national secrets. It was the fucking alphabet.

Still, Dean made sure to pay with cash.

 

The first few times Dean walked in while Sam was writing in the workbook, Sam slammed it shut and shoved it behind him, as if convinced Dean was going to punish him. The sight made Dean both sad an annoyed, a strange combination he associated exclusively with Sam. Dean was always too tired to comment on it. He just sank on to his bed with a six pack and his laptop searching for word on Azazel and his army of hybrids (like the one sitting three feet away) or trawled hunters forums for interesting cases. When the combination of beer, boredom, and something deeper and more painful than words got the better of him, he’d fall asleep. Sometimes he even remembered to turn the light off.

No matter how late Dean stayed up, Sam never went to bed before him and was awake when Dean woke up. That was just the way things were. 

Eventually, Sam apparently decided that Dean wasn’t going to skin him alive for actually using the incredibly illegal workbook Dean had given him. Instead, he would look up from what he was doing when Dean entered, ask if Dean needed anything (he almost never did), then keep working. The light scratch of Sam’s pencil sounded strangely comforting, and more than once—usually after a couple of beers--Dean found himself staring at Sam as he worked.

The attention freaked Sam out, especially given Dean’s new habit of ignoring him most of the time. Sam would wipe his now stupidly long hair from his eyes, lick his lips, and ask, “Do you need something, sir?”

“No,” Dean would always say and go back to pretending to care about whatever was on his laptop or the TV.

Until one night after Dean had finished a salt-and-burn which was uneventful except for how the girl whose bones he’d buried was named Mary. Usually Dean shrugged off coincidences like that, but this time he couldn’t stop thinking of tomato rice soup, apple pie, and _Hey Jude,_ no matter how many shitty sitcoms he watched. He needed out of his own head, so when Sam asked if he needed anything, Dean answered, “What are you working on?”

Sam blinked, “It’s uh. . . I think it's called the letter ‘G.’”

“And how’s it going?”

“The lesson sir?”

Dean nodded, “Yeah. I wanna make sure you’re actually learning something.”

“It's . . . it’s going well, I think. It’s a little difficult to write. I think sometimes my larger G’s look like sixes.”

“Capital."

Sam frowned, “I’m sorry, sir?”

“It’s a capital G, not a larger G. The bigger letters are called capital letters, and the smaller ones are called lowercase.”

Sam blinked, “Really?”

“Yea, doesn’t the book tell you that?” Sam flushed, and Dean stopped, realizing his mistake. It’s not like Sam could read any instructions or lessons that were in the workbook. The book was undoubtedly written to help a parent or teacher teach a child, not just for them to toss at a five-year-old with a pencil and say, ‘Learn to read.’

How much was Sam even able to comprehend by himself?

“Come here," Dean said.

“I . . . “ Sam stared looked between himself and Dean’s bed with wide eyes, “Yes sir.”

_Fuck. He thinks I’m gonna rape him_. 

“Actually, I’ll come to you." Dean slid off the bed and sat down next to Sam, “That way you don’t have to write on a mattress.”

Sam stopped, “I’m sorry, sir?”

Dean sighed, “That wasn’t an innuendo Sam. I don’t and will never want to fuck you. I just want to help you understand the difference between capital and lowercase letters.”

For a long moment, Sam didn’t respond. Instead, he stared at Dean with a gratitude that bordered on awe.

Sam’s expression made Dean feel like shit. No one should look so grateful just because someone promised not to rape them.

“Come on,” he said, “Let’s see how far you got.”

Dean flipped through the workbook. He wasn’t sure what to expect, probably the random scribbles of a toddler or the mindless doodles that dominated most of his own homework. He definitely hadn’t expect pages of painstakingly neat lettering, careful underlining of words Sam apparently recognized throughout the book—including in the instructions—and symbols to indicate patterns that Sam saw but didn’t have the words to write down.

“Seriously dude,” Dean said as he examined Sam’s perfect rows of ‘G’s, “This would be impressive for a human to figure out on their own, it’s damn near genius for a hybrid.”

Sam ducked his head and smiled at the ground, “Thank you sir.”

Dean grunted, not sure what to do with the warmth of Sam’s expression and turned back to the first page.

“Alright,” he said, “Let's go back to the beginning. The first letter is called ‘A’ like apple.”

“And the middle of Sam.”

“That’s right. What are some other words with that sound?”

“There’s cattle . . . and cat . . . can . . . rat . . .”

Sam went on, with Dean adding or correcting a word here or there. Then Dean explained how ‘A’ sometimes said its own name, and Sam thought of words that made that sound too (cane, plane, drain, rain, play). Then they did the same thing for the letter B. By the time Dean finally called it a night, he had pulled out his notebook and was listing out a dozen words with the letters ‘A’ and ‘B’ with crude drawing signifying their meaning for Sam to study while Dean was out the next day.

Dean wasn’t a deep thinker, so when he went to bed that night feeling lighter than he had in months, he didn’t question why. When he slept easier than he had since the night his father died, he didn’t probe too deeply. We he kept getting distracted the next day wondering how Sam was coming along learning those new words, he didn’t read too into it.

He just got back to the motel, shot Sam a smile and said, “Let’s see what you got done.”

* * *

 

Dean had never taught anyone anything before, with the exception of a few painfully incompetent hunters he had met on the job. However, his relief after teaching a couple dumb-ass hunters how to spot the difference between a vampire and a shifter was nothing like his near-giddiness a couple weeks after he started tutoring Sam when he wrote in large, painstakingly neat letters,

_My name is Sam._

“Well look at that. Your first sentence!”

Sam beamed at him, “Is it right?”

“It’s perfect,” Dean grinned, “Okay let’s try another one. Write _I am tall.”_

In just a few weeks after that, Sam had finished the first workbook Dean and had filled half a notebook with words and sentences. Dean had spent more time than he was willing to admit tracking down the sequel. He also grabbed an arithmetic workbook.

Now when Dean got back to the motel, Sam would show him several pages of reading and math homework for Dean to look over and (rarely) correct. After dinner, Dean would give him another lesson, sometimes from the workbooks, sometimes one he’d planned himself. Sam devoured anything to do with reading and math. In fact, Dean could barely believe it when the first time Sam seemed to truly flounder was when Dean tried to explain how to read a clock.

Sam’s forehead wrinkled, “I don’t understand,” he said, staring at Dean’s rough depiction of an analogue clock, “How do you decide how much an hour is?”

Dean shrugged, “I don’t know. Some old nerds probably got together a million years ago and said, ‘there are sixty minutes in an hour,’ and the rest of us just went along with it.”

“That . . . doesn’t make any sense.”

“It’s not different from how the rest of time was decided. You think it actually matters if there are seven days in a week?”

“There are seven days in a week?”

For the first time, Dean wondered if Sam might actually be as stupid as every other hybrid, “Of course there are seven days in a week.”

Sam flushed, “I know the brothel was busiest on Fridays, Farmer Johnson and his wife went to church on Sundays, and all humans hate Mondays. Other than that . . . no sir. No one’s told me.”

“Holy shit,” Dean wasn’t particularly aware of the days of the week—time tended to run together as a hunter—but for no one to have ever told him how they worked. An ugly thought reared its head, “Sam, do you know what year it is?”

“Um,” Sam looked away, “I think the news said it’s 2047?”

“2048,” Dean said, “The new year began a few weeks ago.”

“Oh,” Sam hung his head, “I’m sorry sir. It . . . it gets confusing.”

“It’s not your fault,” Dean said, and he was pretty sure that was true, “Do all hybrids struggle figuring this stuff out?”

“I think Jess knew the days of the week,” Sam admitted, “She always seemed to know when it was Friday, and I was always too embarrassed to ask how she figured it out. After the mines, it all just got confusing.”

“What about the mines made it confusing?”

Sam blinked, and now Dean felt stupid, “Sorry,” he said, “I don’t know much about how the mines work.”

Sam nodded, “I’m glad of that. It’s just hard to keep track of things without the sun. Everything blends together, and now it can still be hard to keep track.”

“You didn’t see the sun. Did that mean you were always leaving the mine at night?”

Sam frowned again, “Hybrids never leave the mine, sir. It’s all underground. I didn’t see the sun when they shipped me from the factory until the demon sold me the brothel.”

“Oh,” Dean tried to imagine it. Going weeks, months, even years without seeing the sky. Living his entire life without knowing the day of the week or even the year. It sounded like hell. Like so much of Sam’s life, it sounded needlessly cruel.

“Well,” Dean said finally, “Let’s step back and start with the basics. Do you know what months are?”

Sam always fell asleep after him, but that night Dean slept badly, stuck in an exhausted daze but unable to shut is brain down fully. At around three, he gave up and grabbed his phone. Without thinking, he pulled up the DSC hybrid database and after several failed attempts logged into the account he'd had to make for Farmer Johnson to switch over Sam's title. He barely glanced at the website then, too exhausted and eager to shower the scent of black dogs off him to care and there hadn't been any need for him to use it since then. 

After several minutes of searching, because the DSC couldn't even make a functioning website, Dean finally found Sam's title history. There was a head shot of Sam with eyes so empty that Dean couldn't bring himself to look at it closely along with a terse description of Sam's life.

ID S27AQ9M

Manufacturer: Walmart Incorporated

Manufacturer Year: 2024

Height 6’5’’   Weight 143 lbs

Licenses: Factory Labor (2028), Mine Labor (2038), Pleasure (2042), Farm Labor (2045), Carpentry and Home Repair (2045)

Vaccinations: Up to Date    Sterilized: Yes

Known Defects: Seizures

DSC-Mandated Discipline: N/A

Estimated Value: $150

 

Title History

Walmart Incorporated (2024-2038)

Patriot Coal Corporation (2038-2042)

Saint Louis Pleasure LLC (2042-2045)

Johnson, Joseph (2045-2047)

Winchester, Dean (2047-Present)

 

Four years. Sam didn’t breathe fresh air for four years. Dean wondered how much of this Sam knew. Did he know he was sterilized? Did he know the names of all the people and places that had owned him?

Dean half thought about waking Sam up and telling him that he was the same age his kid brother would have been, but based on their conversation earlier that day, those words probably wouldn’t make any sense. Dean hadn’t ever told Sam about Seth, anyway.

“Fucking shit,” Dean muttered and slammed his phone on his bedside table.

"Are you alright, sir?" Sam's voice was soft and groggy, but he was already sitting up.

"Yeah, just a stupid email," Dean lied, "Sorry I woke you. Go back to sleep."

"Yes sir," Sam laid back down, but Dean wasn't sure he actually managed to fall back asleep. 

Dean didn't. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter fought me tooth and nail, but hopefully you guys enjoy it.


	9. Andy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam makes a friend. Dean makes an uncomfortable connection.

In February, Dean remembered why he started dragging Sam along in the first place.

They were stopping at a gas station in South Carolina. They’d had to stop at several to find one that would allow hybrids to use the bathroom. By the time they did, Dean was fuming and Sam looked ready to shit his pants.

“Move fast,” Dean said, “I wanted to be in Georgia already.”

Except by the time Dean had gassed up and bought some slim jims and Twinkies, Sam still hadn’t emerged.

“Come on, Sam,” Dean rapped on the door and opened it, “You done yet? It’s time to—“

Sam was hunched over the sink, clutching his head in one hand and splashing water in his face with the other.

“Vision?”

“Yes sir,” Sam said behind closed eyes.

The problem was, despite all the progress Sam had made over the past couple months, he was still mostly illiterate, which made it difficult for him to identify any details that might help them figure out why a man might suddenly walk into a gun shop, kill the owner, then himself.

“Okay,” Dean handed Sam a stack of napkins and a pen, “Draw anything you can remember.”

“There was a clock,” Sam said, “The hands were pointing to the 12, and the 4, I think.”

“Do you remember which one was the large hand and which one was the short?”

Sam shook his head, “There wasn’t time to look. Then there was a bus with a logo.”

“A logo,” Dean nodded, “We can work with that. What did it look like?”

“Kinda like a road,” Sam said, “But it was stuck in a triangle.” He drew on the napkin, frowning when he tore a hole in it, but it wasn’t long before he had scribbled out a rough sketch of what he was talking about. “Then below it were two words in a box.” He drew the box for emphasis, tearing the napkin again.

“Any chance you recognized either of them?”

“I think the first one was blue—that’s the one with the U and the E that stick together, right? Black ends in a K.”

“That’s right,” Dean nodded, “Very good. Any chance you recognized the second word?”

Sam shook his head.

“What about any of the letters?”

“Um,” Sam covered his eyes, as if trying to pull the vision back, “An R, I think. That was the first one. And it ended the same way “blue” did, which means it had an E. Other than that,” he dropped his hands and shook his head, “It went too fast for me to see. I’m sorry, sir.”

“Don’t be sorry. We’ve got a logo and part of a name. I can work with that.”

And Dean could. It took a little time and a couple calls to Bobby, who wasn’t thrilled to hear why Sam could recognize as much as he did, but didn’t push Dean on it, before Dean found the bus logo for Guthrie, Oklahoma.

“That right?” he asked, spinning the laptop around to show Sam, who nodded.

“Alright,” Dean glanced at his watch. It said 11:30, but since they didn’t have a clear idea of a time or a day, Dean didn’t know if they were too late.

 

They were, but only just. Dean arrived at the steps of the shop, Sam just behind him, just as two, sharp _cracks_ rang from inside.

“Shit!” he skidded to a halt as panicked witnesses started streaming from the store, “ _Shit!_ ”

Sam walked past him, rushing up the steps.

“Sam no!”

Sam turned, “But sir, we need to see . . .”

“People are already going to be thinking the guy’s death was supernatural, but if they see a hybrid poking around at the scene, they’ll probably kill you on principal.”

Sam opened his mouth, _ready to argue back_ , before closing it again with a snap.

“Yes sir.”

Dean had Sam wait at the car while he checked out the scene, medical and law enforcement officials parting before him when he flashed his DSC Hunter’s License in their faces.

“You really think think a-a demon could have done this?” the Sheriff said as Dean checked the shop for sulfur.

“It is way too early to start talking about demons,” Dean lied, “I'm just passing through. Thought I should check it out, just in case.”

“Shows what it gets you,” the sheriff said darkly, nodding at the dead man’s body, “Everyone knew the Doc was a Sympathizer. Look what it got him. Killed by the shit he was trying to protect.”

Dean straightened from where he was inspecting the gun in the dead man’s hands and met the Sheriff’s eyes, “I have an idea. Instead of standing around spinning a bunch of yarns about what we think happened, let’s conduct an actual investigation. Now I haven’t seen any indication of supernatural interference” _aside from the psychic hybrid who saw the whole thing,_ “So let’s at least pretend we’re professionals.”

Everyone had stopped what they were doing and were staring at Dean and the sheriff, who flushed, “Of course,” he spat.

“Good. I’ll be in touch,” and with that, Dean strode from the store.

 

Since he had no supernatural leads to work with, Dean turned to traditional investigation methods.

“Okay, so the victim’s name was Doctor Andrew Jennings,” he said, flipping through a patient’s list the doctor’s secretary had given him as Sam folded Dean’s clothes with unnecessary precision, “Well liked, no known enemies, not even any malpractice suits. The guy’s squeaky clean.”

“All of them were . . . normal,” Sam said, “At least from what I’ve seen.”

“And there’s no obvious connection between what you’ve seen, aside from the fact demons or hybrids were behind the killings. There aren’t any signs of demonic activity, so that leaves hybrids,” Dean frowned, “Although that doesn’t make much sense either.”

“Why not sir?”

“The guy was a Sympathizer. I mean, remember what Bobby said after he did some research about the hybrid that killed his masters, about how they beat the shit out of him on a regular basis?”

Dean looked back at Sam. He had stopped folding and was staring a Dean with a puzzled frown.

“What is it?”

Sam hurriedly looked down, “Nothing, sir.”

“Spit it out Sam. It might be important.”

“I just . . .” Sam smiled at the ground, “You’re thinking of us as if we’re humans, as if we can make rational decisions, sir. I’ve never met a human who thought like that.”

“What? Do you think I’m wrong?”

“No, sir. You’re right. No hybrid would kill a Sympathizer. It’s just nice to hear a human talk like that.”

Like so much of what Sam said, Dean couldn’t think of a response.

 

Because he was hungry and out of other ideas, Dean decided to check out a local bar, both for a drink, but more importantly to try and catch any small-town gossip that could prove useful. He brought Sam along, something he’d been doing more and more often during investigations. People were willing to say all sorts of things in front of hybrids they’d never say in front of humans. And if that didn’t work, hybrids knew every family’s secrets and were generally happy to spill them to Sam’s puppy eyes.  

Dean checked Sam into the hybrid holding room in the back of the bar, grabbed a dingy ticket from a bored employee, then headed to the bar for a scotch.

He'd just gotten his drink when a young guy sat next to him, scooting his stool over so that their arms were touching.

“How’s it going?” he said with a coy smile.

“Sorry, friend, I don’t swing that way,” Dean said and sipped his drink.

“That’s okay, I wouldn’t fuck a hunter to save my life,” the man said, “I was actually wondering if you’d give me your hybrid.”

_Fuck no, and who the fuck are you?_ Dean thought, but he said, “That sounds like a great idea.”

The man smiled, “Good, let’s go get him and get his title switched over to me. Then you’re going to get into that fancy car of yours and never come near either of us again.”

_Holy shit what the fuck kind of demon is this?_ Dean thought as he got up and said, “Sure.”

The man led the way to the holding room, Dean’s body following despite his desperate attempts to stop himself. He simply had no control over his actions.

“Hand me the ticket,” the man said, and Dean obeyed. The man handed the ticket to the employee and said, “We’d like to pick up our hybrid, please.”

The employee raised his eyebrows, “This soon?”

“Yes. Get him now then forget any of us were here. And you,” the man glared at Dean, “Tell the hybrid everything’s fine and we’re all going back to your hotel. Don’t say anything to anyone else.”

Dean had clearly found the killer. Actually, the killer had found him, and he wanted Sam. _Oh shit Sam doesn’t even have to be convinced to join yellow-eyes, not if this dude can just force him to do what he wants._

“Everything alright, sir?” Sam asked when the employee let him out of the holding room. His brow furrowed when he saw the man, but he bowed his head and stared at his feet.

“Everything’s fine. We’re all going back to the hotel,” Dean said.

Sam opened his mouth to respond, but shot half a glance at the other man and closed it again with a nod.

_Goddamit Sam, you know something’s wrong, do something!_ Except Dean knew that wasn’t fair. What could Sam even do in a bar full of drunk, nervous humans more than happy to pound a misbehaving hybrid to death?

Instead, they walked outside and across the street to their crappy motel where Dean knew the man was going to kill him and take Sam to do whatever demonic shit yellow-eyes wanted his army for.

“Get out your laptop and switch his title,” the man said as Dean shut the door behind them.

Sam’s head snapped up, “What’s happening, sir?” he asked as Dean’s hands moved against his will.

The man looked at Sam, his face suddenly strangely soft, “What’s your name?”

Sam swallowed but glared at the man. Dean’s chest swelled with pride, even though the were still _so fucked_ , “Sam. Now what are you doing to my master?”

“Your master,” the man’s voice went bitter around the word, “Is giving you to me. Then I’m taking you to a Sympathizer town in Mississippi where you’ll be treated like the human you are.”

“Like hell you are demonic bastard,” Dean growled as he logged onto his computer.

“Please stop,” Sam looked desperately between Dean and the man, “Please, stop it. Let him go.”

“He’s brainwashed you,” the man said, “I’ve seen it before, but you’ll understand once you stop having to bitch for him.”

“I’ve never touched him!” Dean said as he logged into the DSC site and pulled up Sam’s title.

“Yeah whatever,” the man said, “All humans treat hybrids like shit, but hunters are the worst of all of them.”

“He’s not,” Sam said, “I swear he’s not. Dean’s good to me, and you’re just a demon or a monster. You’re the one who killed the doctor. You forced him to shoot himself!”

“Doctor Jennings saved my life.” the man reddened, “I would never hurt him!”

“I _saw it._ I saw it, and I won’t help you!” Sam shot back, looking the man full in the face, “I’ll never join you or any other demon!”

“Shut. Up.” the man said and turned back to the computer.

“No!” Sam reached forward and shoved the man against the wall, “Now let go of my master and leave us the fuck alone!”

The man gaped at Sam, “H-how?”

“I’m like you,” Sam said, “I can do things, terrible things, and you? You’re a hybrid, aren’t you? You’re on hell’s side, and you’re trying to convince me to join you.”

“What? No dude, I’m literally just trying to free you! I’d never join hell! Those bastards killed my mother!”

Sam’s grip loosened, “What?”

“A demon came and burned my mother alive when I was six months old,” the man said, “My Dad was barely able to get me out in time. Dr. Jennings was the doctor who treated me in the hospital. He tested my blood for sulfur, since it was a demon attack.” The man swallowed, “It came back positive.”

“Bullshit. All kids are tested for sulfur right after they’re born,” Dean said, “They would have found you already.”

“I can’t explain it,” the man said, “I guess the demon must have done something to me after I was born. All I know for sure is that Dr. Jennings destroyed the original test results and faked a new one with his own blood.”

“He hid you from the DSC,” Sam said. His grip relaxed further, and the man pulled away.

“He told my Dad the truth, so he would make sure not to let anyone draw any blood from me. When I was old enough to understand, my Dad told me. I keep a low profile, stay out of trouble.”

“But you also try to rescue hybrids,” Sam said, “Send them to Sympathizer towns.”

“Just the hybrids with brutal masters, or who belong to people just passing through, nothing that draws attention. It’s not much, but . . .” the man shrugged, “I could be one of you. I am one of you.”

“Dean’s not like that,” Sam said, “I swear. He saved my life. He didn’t report me to the DSC, and he’s teaching me how to read. It’s as much as I can hope for, even in a Sympathizer town.”

“Is what he’s saying true?” the man said, looking at Dean.

“It’s true,” Dean said, “I do the best I can to make him happy.”

Sam stared at him, undoubtedly as shocked as Dean was at this pronouncement.

The man nodded, “Alright.” He pointed at Dean, “But you’re never going to tell anyone else what you just heard about me or about who I am.” He turned to Sam, “And I guess I’m just gonna have to trust you.”

“I won’t,” Sam said, “If you’ve really never hurt anyone, I won’t.”

“Okay then,” the man said, “Well, I'm Andy. What do you know about what could have killed Doctor Jennings?”

“You should probably take a seat,” Dean said, nodding at the chair in front of him, “This is gonna take a while.”

Andy glanced briefly at the chair then back at Sam, “You look exhausted, Sam. How ‘bout you sit?”

“No,” Sam shook his head, “No. I can’t. You should.”

“Sam, my blood is exactly the same as yours,” Andy said in a calm, steady tone, much the same tone Dean used to calm panicked witnesses.

Sam didn’t seem to know what to say to that, so he turned to Dean, “Sir . . .”

“It’s fine, Sam,” Dean said, “Sit down.” Sam looked anxiously between both Andy and Dean but obeyed, perching on the very end of the chair, clearly ready to drop to his knees at the slightest command.

Andy pursed his lips and sat on the corner of the table, probably not happy that Dean had to basically order Sam to sit, but said, “Okay, what do you know?”

 

They didn’t make much progress, just talked in circles for a couple hours before Andy glanced at Sam and said, “That’s all I’ve got for tonight. I’ll stop by tomorrow morning.”

Dean also looked at Sam, who had finally slouched back in the chair, eyes flickering slowly between Andy and Dean. When he noticed Dean’s gaze, he shot back up, “I’m fine, sir. We can keep talking.”

“No,” Dean said, “Makes more sense to get some sleep so we can get an early start tomorrow morning.”

“Awesome,” Andy said, “Now Sam, let’s find you a bed.”

“A what?” Dean and Sam said in unison.

“A bed. You know, one of those,” Andy gestured to the single bed in the room, “Big, soft, off the ground, won’t make your back hurt every morning.”

“I don’t want one,” Sam said before Dean could open his mouth.

“Sam . . .” Andy began.

“No,” Sam met Andy’s eyes for half a second before staring back to the ground, “I’ve been in a bed, okay. I’ve been in lots. I don’t want it.”

_I’ve only been in a bed when I was being raped,_ Dean finished, and thankfully, Andy seemed to understand.

“Okay Sam,” he said, “I’ll see you both tomorrow,” and with that, Andy turned and left the room.

 

Dean couldn’t sleep. How could he? A hybrid with demonic powers, whose mother had died the exact same way as Dean’s had been able to pass as a human his entire life, which should be impossible. That was the whole point. Hybrids couldn’t function in society; they were too dangerous, too stupid, too cruel.

Andy was plenty dangerous, but he definitely wasn’t stupid, and he wasn’t cruel, not really. He hated Dean, could have forced him to do anything, but he just wanted to use Dean to help Sam. Dean rolled over and looked at Sam, who was curled in his sleeping bag with his eyes closed, though Dean doubted he was asleep either.

Sam was plenty dangerous too, but Dean had known for ages that he was smart, smarter than most humans even. Sam was also kind. There wasn’t another word for it. His life had been hell, and he had every reason to hate all humans, to hate Dean. He had every reason to let Bobby die, to walk out the door with Andy and go to one of the few places on Earth where he would be treated . . . like a human.

He hadn’t. He’d plead on Dean’s behalf. He’d shoved Andy against the wall, even though Andy could have had him killed for it, all for Dean.

Their powers must also make Azazel's special hybrids smarter, make it easier for them infiltrate and destroy humans. Demons were plenty smart, after all.  

It made sense, even if it still didn't sit quite right. It was enough to allow Dean fall into fitful sleep.

He was very, very careful to avoid thinking about what Andy's story might mean about Seth.

 

As always, Sam was already moving silently around the room when Dean woke. He’d showered and dressed, and was sitting on the floor, bent over his notebook with his morning bowl of feed beside him. Dean had woken up to this sight dozens of times, and it had always made him feel good, feel like he giving Sam what he deserved. Today he just felt nauseas.

He’d barely showered and dressed when he heard Andy pounding on the door. Sam immediately jumped up and opened it, smiling a little, “Good morning, sir.”

“Andy, Sam. It’s Andy,” Andy walked in, a McDonalds bag clasped in one hand and a drink holder in the other. He set the food on the table, “I figured I’d get breakfast so we could get started quickly. Couple of sausage McMuffins okay?”

“Perfect,” Dean said, “Thanks.”

Andy didn’t answer. He was looking at Sam’s half-eaten bowl of feed, “The best you can, eh?” he said finally, throwing half a glance at Dean.

Dean shifted, and Sam lowered his head. Andy picked up a small cup and handed it to Sam, “I figured your stomach probably wouldn’t be able to handle real food, so I got you this.”

Sam took the cup and glanced at Dean.

“It’s fine, Sam,” Dean said before Sam could open his mouth.

“It’s orange juice,” Andy said, “Have you had it before?”

Sam shook his head, and Dean briefly wanted to die. Sam had served him orange juice plenty of times.

“It’s good,” Andy said, “Literally everyone likes it.”

Sam raised the cup to his lips and took a small sip. His eyes widened, and he stared down at the cup in awe. His expression would have been hilarious if it wasn’t so heartbreaking.

Andy grinned, “Was I right, or was I right?”

“It’s amazing,” Sam took another sip, “I’ve never had anything like it. I--” he closed his eyes and grimaced.

“You alright, Sam?” Andy asked carefully.

“I’m fine, I . . .” Sam gripped his head in his hands, and the juice tumbled to the ground.

“It’s a vision,” Dean said, shoving Andy aside, gripping Sam’s shoulders and helping control his fall, “Sam, hey, Sammy! You’re okay. You’re gonna be okay. Just focus. What do you see?”

“A . . . a gas station,” Sam said, “There’s a woman. She’s burning alive. She’s gonna kill herself.”

Dean turned to Andy, “How many gas stations in town?”

“I don’t know,” Andy said, “Four or five at least. Too many to know for sure.”

“Okay Sammy,” Dean said, “You gotta give us a little more than that. Anything else about the station?”

“Th-the pumps have black handles, and there’s a green sign. I’m not sure. . .”

“There’s a BP station a mile from here.”

Dean was already getting to his feet and grabbing his gun, “You take care of him,” he said to Andy, and rushed out the door.

 

He arrived with the fire trucks. He got the woman’s name, told an increasingly frantic sheriff that there still wasn’t any proof of demonic activities, but that he still needed access to see all the woman’s records, just to make sure.

On the way back from the courthouse, he passed a McDonalds.

When he got back, Sam and Andy were sitting at the table. Sam was pressing a makeshift icepack made from a grocery bag and the ice from the motel’s machine to his forehead, and it sucked that Dean was positive Andy was the one who made it.

“Does the name Holly Beckett mean anything to you?” he said, setting a large cup of orange juice on the table in front of Sam, who immediately seized it as if he thought Dean might pull it away again.

“No,” Andy shook his head, “Never heard of her.”

“She’s 41, single, and was one of Doctor Jennings’ patients.”

“Okay,” Andy said slowly, “Doesn’t that mean the connection’s to him, not me?”

“Well that depends,” Dean said, “Were you adopted, Andy?”

“Yeah,” Andy said, “So?”

“So, you didn’t think to mention that detail?”

“Why would it matter?”

“Because Holly’s your birth mother,” Dean said, and he couldn’t help a petty sense of satisfaction seeing Andy’s shocked face.

“I . . . but why would a demon kill her?”

“It’s not a demon,” Dean slapped a picture from the records office on the table, “It’s your twin, Ansem.”

Sam’s eyes snapped to the picture, which Andy picked up with trembling hands.

“That’s impossible,” he said.

“She decided to give you up for adoption at the last minute,” Dean said, “Dr. Jennings helped her give birth and oversaw the adoption process. He probably didn’t have time to find a family that could take twins.”

“I . . . I know this guy,” Andy said, “We used to work together.”

Sam tilted his head to get a better look at the picture, “He’s human.”

“He’s free,” Andy said, “We’re all human, Sam.” Sam pursed his lips, but didn’t respond.

“Human or not,” Dean said, “It’s a safe he’s the one killing these people.”

“Okay,” And nodded, “Okay. I’m gonna talk to him. I’m gonna see . . .”

“No can do, Andy,” Dean said, “You and Sam might be good guys, but we’ve already seen other juiced-up hybrids kill.”  

Andy shook his head, “No. I’m not gonna let some bigot hunter go shooting my brother! Just because you think people like us are monsters!”

“If you’re killing people, you’re a monster!” Dean roared back, “Especially if you’re killing them with demonic powers!”

“If we’re like humans,” Sam said quietly as Andy opened his mouth again, “That’s what you’ve been telling me, right? Humans choose what they become. That means we do too. And if he’s choosing to hurt people, people we know are good,” Sam shrugged and looked at the ground, “Then he’s no more like us than the humans who kill hybrids for fun.”

For a long moment, Andy just looked at Sam, and Sam held his gaze.

"And if we--if Dean doesn't kill him, the DSC will find him eventually, and they'll find out he's-he's like us. You know what they'd do then. What they'd do to the rest of us.

Sam didn't look away from Andy, who closed his eyes with a heavy sigh, “You’re right Sam.” He looked at Dean, “But I need proof first. I need to know it’s him.”

Dean nodded, “Fair enough.”

 

In the end, it was easy to prove Ansem was a sick murderer. Sam had a vision of him forcing Andy’s on-again, off-again girlfriend, Tracey, to jump off a dam. Dean had to stay out of sight with a rifle to avoid Ansem’s powers, leaving Andy had to approach him alone. Sam offered to go with him, but both Andy and Dean squashed the idea. Instead, Sam crouched in the bushes besides Dean, there to stop Dean from doing anything stupid if Ansem noticed him.

As usual, everything went to hell. Ansem nearly killed both Dean and Tracey. To save their lives (to save Tracey’s life, really), Andy killed his brother and told the authorities it was a suicide.

“She wouldn’t even look at me,” he said as Dean drove them back to the motel, “I never used it on her, never, but now . . .”

“I’m sorry,” Dean said, and was more than a little surprised to realize he meant it.

No one spoke until Andy got out at the motel, “I’ll find my way home,” he said, “It’s not like the bus driver’s going to make me pay.”

“You mind speaking to the sheriff?” Dean asked, “And anyone else around here who might be anxious about what’s happened. No reason for people to start crying demon and take it out on . . .” His eyes moved briefly to Sam, “Others.”

Andy followed his gaze, and nodded, “I’ll take care of it.”

“Well then, be good Andy.” 

“You too, Dean,” Andy said, still looking at Sam, “You wanna come with me, Sam? I still haven’t found a way to free a hybrid yet without getting in more trouble than even I can get out of, but until I do, you’llll be as good as free.”

“I . . .” Sam met Andy’s eyes and stared wistfully outside. Dean’s stomach clenched. Sam was going to leave, and there was nothing Dean could do to stop it. 

Sam took a deep breath, “No. Thank you, but no. I’m gonna stay.”

_Wait . . . what?_ Dean stared at Sam, certain he must have heard wrong.

Andy sighed, "You sure?"

"I'm sure," Sam said immediately.

“Okay," Andy said, taking a step back, "Then take care of yourselves, both of you,” and walked away.

Ten minutes later they were back on the road. Dean pressed hard on the gas, determined to escape that hellhole as fast as possible. Before Andy came back. Before Sam changed his mind. 

He didn’t miss that Sam’s eyes were glued to the back window long after Guthrie, Oklahoma was just a speck.

 

Sam always sat in the backseat, so he was understandably confused (scared), when Dean asked (ordered) him to sit in the front after they stopped for gas a few hours later. 

Dean drove without speaking, without even turning on the radio. Usually some Zeppelin or Black Sabbath calmed him, but even that would be too distracting for the thoughts wrestling in his head. Thoughts of fires and blood tests and dead brothers and choices that didn't make any sense. 

“Is everything alright, sir?” he asked after a solid fifteen minutes of silence.

Sam was clearly freaked, arms pulled tight around himself

“Yeah,” Dean said, “Just need to think is all.”

“Yes sir,” Sam said, even though Dean knew damn well he hadn’t actually explained anything.

Another half hour of silence passed before Dean could finally bring himself to ask, “Why didn’t you go with him?”

Sam looked out the window without answering, and Dean was debating whether to ask (order) again when Sam finally said, “You need my help finding Azazel.”

“You really hate him that much? Enough to choose . . .” Dean gestured vaguely at Sam, “This.”

“You treat me far better than any other human would,” Sam said, “Even some Sympathizers, and if I got caught . . .” Sam sucked in a breath and stared down at his hands.

Dean had heard stories of what happened to hybrids that tried to escape. The executions usually took days, and they were always public.

“Well thank you,” Dean said. Sam didn’t respond, and when Dean glanced over, he found Sam staring at him.

As always when Dean caught Sam staring, Sam’s eyes fluttered to the floor, “You’re welcome, sir.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While this work will include references to key moments in the series, it will not turn into a rehashing of canon. This chapter is the closest by far to any original Supernatural episode.


	10. Rules

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean has an idea. Sam has an uncomfortable encounter.

_“If you were free. What would you want to do?”_

_“You mean if I was freed now, or if I was always free?”_

_“Whichever.”_

_“I . . . I think the answer’s actually the same either way. I’d want to become a teacher.”_

_“Why a teacher?”_

_“Dean teaching me changed everything. I think I’d like to pass that on, you know?”_

_“I think you’d make a good teacher.”_

_[Sam shrugs.] “I used to think Dean hated it.”_

_“Teaching?”_

_[Sam nods.]_

_“Then why did you think he did it?”_

_“Boredom, I guess. I wanted to learn as much as I could before he lost interest, but he never has, not even now, after everything.”_

_“Why is that, do you think?”_

_“Lots of reasons, I guess. I think he wants to help me, but I think he really likes it, too, even if he doesn’t admit it. It’s the only time he smiles anymore.”_

_“I somehow doubt Dean sees himself as a teacher.”_

_“Dean never had the chance to imagine being anything but a hunter.”_

_“So, in your happily ever after, you and Dean end up as a couple of school teachers?”_

_“Pathetic, I know?”_

_“Just a little. No, actually, a lot.”_

_[Sam laughs.] What about you. What do you really want to do, instead of interviewing hybrids like me in crappy motels?”_

_“Oh, that’s easy. I want to interview hybrids like you on CNN.”_

* * *

“Alright, let’s try again,” Dean pointed at the sentence in Sam’s reading workbook. They were moving on from simple sentences (My name is Sam. The dog is big. I am tall.) to more complex ones. As always, Sam learned quickly, but he still usually needed to read the sentence a couple of times before he got it right.

Sam began, moving his finger under each word as he went, “Anna likees,”

“Likes,” Dean corrected.

“But I thought the E was only silent at the end of a word.”

“Usually, yea, but take away the S and what do you have?”

“Like,” Sam said promptly, “That’s a word by itself.”

“Exactly,” the S is just added on there because it’s talking about one person.

Sam nodded and started again, “Anna likes to play with Seeth.”

“Seth, just the one E, right?”

“That’s right,” Sam moved his finger back to the beginning of the sentence, “Anna likes to play with Seth.”

“Awesome,” Dean said, and Sam smiled, “See you’re getting it.”

“I just need to keep track of all the E sounds.”

“Well, let’s go over the words with E in this sentence again.”

“Likes,” Sam read, “Because like is a word all by itself and Seth because there’s one E, so it makes the _eh_ sound.”

“Exactly,” Dean grinned, “Likes and Seth.” The grin slipped away as the crackling of flames roared in his ears and the stench of smoke filled his nose and mouth.

“Sir?”

“My brother’s name is Seth,” Dean said quietly.

Sam frowned, “You have a brother, sir?”

“Have I really never told you about him?” When Sam shook his head, Dean said, “I guess that makes sense. He was killed by a demon when he was six months old.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” Sam said, his eyes full of pity and maybe even a little comradery. He knew what a death like that felt like, after all.

“The demon killed my Mom too,” Dean said. He didn’t know why he was telling Sam this. He didn’t talk about it with anyone, not even Bobby, but the words fell from his mouth of their own accord, “She died just how Jessica and Andy’s Mom died, burned on the ceiling. It happened in Seth’s nursery.”

Sam was holding Dean’s gaze now, and Dean barely felt surprised, even though Sam had only met Dean’s eyes for a second or two at a time before.

The words wouldn’t stop. “We thought Seth was gonna be okay. Dad gave him to me and told me to take him outside as fast as I could, and I did. When I got out, he was fine, but when the EMT’s came they said he’d breathed in a lot of smoke. They rushed him to the hospital. By the time we got there, he was already . . .” Dean wiped his eyes, “Dad wouldn’t even let me see him. Said he wanted my last memory to be of him alive.”

“You miss him.”

“More than I can . . .” Dean shook his head, “But now I can’t help but wonder if he was actually lucky.”

It took several seconds for Sam to understand what Dean was getting at, and his eyes widened, “You think he might have been a hybrid.”

“Not a normal one,” Dean said, “My Mom would never make a demon deal. Her family had been hunting decades before anyone else knew about demons, but maybe Azazel was doing something else to human babies to turn them into his super soldiers, so maybe it’s better Seth died before he became something . . .”

“Something like me,” Sam finished. His pity had disappeared, replaced by a dark glint of anger and hurt. He stared back down at the book.

“What if he turned into Max, or Ansem?” Dean said, a rush of anger mercifully drying his eyes, “What if I had to kill him? And what . . .” Dean stared at the collar around Sam’s neck, thought of him bleeding out in a stable before being shot in the head by his master, “What if he had your life, Sam? Would you really wish your life on anyone?”

“It doesn’t matter, sir,” Sam said, pulling up his sleeve to show Dean the barcode on his wrist, “I was born in a Walmart factory and raised on an assembly line. I’ve never had the luxury of dying to avoid becoming what I am.”

Dean slammed the workbook shut and stood, “Bed. Now.”

Sam flinched, head dipping to his chin. _Which makes sense,_ Dean thought, _If he had mouthed off like that to any other human . . ._

He didn’t finish the thought. Instead, he marched to the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. When he emerged fifteen minutes later, Sam was curled in his sleeping bag with his eyes closed. Dean turned off the light and got into bed, but he was sure it was a long time before either of them slept.

* * *

Sam fell over himself over the next couple of weeks to make up for his outburst, which Dean found simultaneously gratifying and infuriating. Sam had crossed a line that would have gotten him whipped with any other master, but as the days went on every one of his near-whispered Sir’s and gratuitous cleaning of their motel only made Dean feel like more of a dick. After all, he was the one who said anyone would rather be dead than have Sam’s life. He knew Sam had gotten so angry because he agreed, which only made Dean feel worse. The whole mess made him do his best to ignore Sam, a difficult feat considering they were often no more than ten feet apart. Still, he stopped helping Sam with lessons, stopped talking about his hunts or other random stories, and started spending more time at bars and in strangers’ beds.

It only took a few days for Sam to become as anxious as when Dean had first bought him. He worked quickly, efficiently, and in utter silence. He kept his head bent low and took to sitting or sleeping in the corner furthest from Dean’s field of vision, as if actively trying to make Dean forget he was there. He even studied less, shoving the workbooks behind him again whenever Dean entered.

It all made Dean strangely lonely, and he’d never felt more guilty in his life. Three weeks of awkward, guilt-ridden silence later, he'd had enough. After successfully killing a shifter terrorizing the residents of a no-name part of Ohio, Dean returned to the motel with a new math book and large McDonalds orange juice.

Sam was busy cleaning the rest of Dean’s weapons. It had taken months for Dean to allow Sam to do that, but he got tired of cleaning and sharpening the twenty-odd weapons, and even with his homework, Sam still got bored.

“Did it go well, sir?” he asked, half-glancing at Dean to check him for any injuries. Sam had also gradually become Dean’s medic, which was awesome. Stitching yourself up sucked, and Sam took to it quickly, as always.

“Yep. Shifter dead. Civilians saved. The whole nine.”

“I’m glad, sir.”

“I uh,” Dean suddenly felt inexplicably nervous, “I got you something.”

He sat down and set the cup in front of Sam, who stared at it as if he’d never seen one before.

“I’m sorry for the way I’ve been acting the past couple weeks. I was a dick.” Sam opened his mouth to protest, and Dean held up a hand, “No, I was, and it’s wrong.” Sam blinked, but Dean didn’t stop. He didn’t trust himself to start again if he did. “I mean, you’re smarter and more committed to fighting demons than a lot of humans, so it’s not okay for me to treat you like those bastards at the DSC want me to.”

“You don’t, sir,” Sam said automatically.

“But I’ve never asked for your opinion either. On anything. So I’m asking now. What do you need?”

“I . . . I don’t understand, sir,” Sam said, eyes still fixed on the cup.

“What do you need from me, Sam? What can I do to help you?”

Sam’s head snapped up, “I-I don’t . . . Are you . . .” This was not going the way Dean intended. Sam seemed on his way to a full-blown panic attack.

“Breathe, Sam. Breathe. It’s okay. This isn’t a trick. I’m really asking.”

Sam obeyed, taking several deep, steadying breaths, “I-I need to know what the rules are, sir,” he said finally.

“What do you mean? What rules?”

“I mean,” Sam gestured around him, “You’re letting me handle your weapons and sometimes giving me human food and teaching me, and I’m so, so grateful. You’re a much better master than any hybrid could imagine, but I’m still a hybrid. I’m still yours, and I don’t know what I’m allowed to do, and that makes me afraid that one day I’ll do something that will make you angry and you’ll . . .” Sam clenched his hands together, “I just need to know the rules.”

“Okay,” Dean nodded, “That’s makes sense. Let’s write down some rules for you and for me.”

“For you, sir?”

“That’s right,” Dean nodded more energetically, suddenly thrilled by this idea, “You’ve got a list of rules you need to follow, so it’s only fair that I have one too. That way, we both know what we can and can’t do. Does that sound good?”

Sam smiled, “Th-that sounds wonderful, sir.”

It took a long time, mostly because it took a lot of wheedling for Dean to convince Sam to express his own opinion on anything, rather than just nodding along with whatever Dean said.

Finally, though, they had two lists, written in the large, clear letters Dean had perfected over his months tutoring Sam.

Rules for Sam

  1. Sam can learn. (Sam beamed as Dean wrote that as the first rule).
  2. Sam can ask questions.
  3. Sam can disagree with Dean. (Sam frowned at this but said nothing.)
  4. Sam can use furniture. (Sam glanced nervously at Dean’s bed but perked up considerably once Dean explained that 'can' does not mean 'has to'. “And to be honest, I’m getting kinda tired of sitting on the floor when I’m teaching you.”
  5. Sam does not have to call Dean “Sir.” (It took Dean another couple minutes to convince Sam he actually meant this one).
  6. Sam can go outside when Dean is gone without asking permission as long as he can still see the motel. (This was the rule Sam actually requested on his own. Dean had to think about it for a minute before remembering that Sam had a tracking chip and he almost never got to be outside.)
  7. Sam must obey Dean, unless Dean tells him to break a rule.
  8. Sam cannot hurt Dean.
  9. Sam cannot use a weapon unless he is being attacked.
  10. Sam cannot use money without Dean’s permission (Sam shrugged at this. Dean knew Sam still didn’t really understand how money worked, which was a relief. Dean really didn’t want Sam to know that he was technically worth about a tenth of Dean’s iPhone.
  11. Sam cannot tell anyone about these rules. (“I don’t understand. Why would I do that, sir? Just in case, Sammy. We’re writing them all down, right?)
  12. Sam must tell Dean when he has a vision.



Dean’s list was shorter but took considerably longer to write, mainly because it took Dean a long time to convince Sam that writing his list wasn’t a fantastic waste of time. (I’m serious, Sam. I’m gonna follow them.)

  1. Dean cannot harm Sam. (Sam beamed again and sipped his orange juice).
  2. Dean cannot purposefully put Sam in danger. (Dean thought grimly of Farmer Johnson’s horse).
  3. Dean cannot force Sam to have sex with him. (They had to take a break after Dean wrote this. Sam retreated to the bathroom, and Dean pretended not to hear his relieved sobs while silently cursing the entire human race.)
  4. Dean cannot force Sam to have sex with anyone else. (Sam actually suggested this. Dean was proud of him, but did Sam seriously worry that he’d do that?)
  5. Dean cannot punish Sam by taking away his food. (Also Sam’s idea, and Dean heartily agreed, throwing in a few curses for Farmer Johnson. Sam smiled around his straw).
  6. Dean can ask Sam to do anything that doesn’t break a rule. (Sam almost rolled his eyes at this, “Well, we’re writing them all down, aren’t we?)
  7. Dean can punish Sam by taking away his books, paper, and pencils. (Oddly enough, this was Sam’s idea too. “Not knowing is so much worse, sir.”)
  8. Dean can punish Sam by not letting him go outside.
  9. Dean can punish Sam by giving him extra work. (“Seriously, Sam. How many of these do you need?”)



“Alright, I think that’s it, don’t you?”

Sam frowned, “Isn’t there one more, sir?”

“Really?” Dean scanned the lists, “Because this seems pretty exhaustive. What are we missing?”

Sam blinked, “You can kill me, sir.”

Dean looked up, “You’re kidding.”

“I don’t understand,” Sam seemed genuinely surprised, “I thought this was another of those obvious ones.”

“No, Sam. I don’t see anything obvious about me being able to kill you.”

“You’re a hunter,” Sam said with almost patronizing patience, “And I’m a hybrid that Azazel probably wants to join his army. If I were to go bad . . .”

“You won’t.” The idea made Dean sick.

“I can’t imagine why I would, sir. But just in case there’s some switch in me that he can flip to make me evil, we should both know that’s a rule.”

“Fine,” Dean said, because Sam was right, as much as Dean hated to admit it. “We’re going to modify this, though.”

  1. Dean can kill Sam if he threatens a human.



“Or a hybrid,” Sam added. Dean nodded.

  1. Dean can kill Sam if he threatens a human or a hybrid.



“Alright, now I think we’re good,” Dean smiled, “Better?”

Sam nodded, “Can we . . . can we sign them, sir?”

“Sign them. Why?”

“That’s what you do, sir, isn’t it? When you make something official.”

“Fair enough.” Dean scrawled his name at the bottom of both lists and handed the pen to Sam, “Your turn.”

Sam beamed again, and Dean suddenly realized that this was the first time Sam had written his name for anything besides practice. Hell, it was probably the first time he promised a human anything. He’d never been given enough of a choice to break a promise.

Still grinning, Sam bent over and wrote his name with slow, painstaking precision. When he was done, he looked up and handed Dean the pen, “Thank you, sir.”

A sudden, overwhelming rush of affection for Sam swept through Dean, along with a healthy addition of self-loathing. How could this be fair? How could it be fair for someone as good and kind and smart as Sam to be grateful to Dean for promising not torture or starve him, for letting him use a chair and write his own name?

He forced the thoughts down because, despite whatever kindness and intelligence Sam had, he still wasn’t human. He was still descended from the things that murdered thousands of people, including Dean’s mother and brother.

Instead, Dean smiled back, “You’re welcome, Sam.”

* * *

“I need to check in with Bobby. You mind grabbing me a burger and fries?” Dean handed Sam a $20 and a laminated card. The card said Sam could purchase a $50 worth of items for his master, so long as the items could not pose a threat to a human.

Dean had gotten the card a few weeks earlier. Not long after _they_ wrote their rules, Sam said he’d like to try and use some of the reading and math he was learning in the real world. It had taken days to gather the strength to ask, but one of the first rules was that Sam could ask questions. Sure enough, when he mentioned it, Dean smiled, “Sounds like a great idea, Sammy.”

He was saying _Sammy_ more often too, and Sam was surprised to find he liked Dean calling him that. It didn’t feel like Dean was mocking him, more like Dean thought of him as a friend, even though that was a thought Sam placed firmly in his list of impossible wishes, a little under getting Jess back and being freed. 

Dean had eagerly started having Sam read billboards and signs and even showed him how to use the weathered Atlas he kept under the seat. “There will always come a day,” he said, “when your phone’s dead, your GPS is toast, and you’re running away from or towards something with lots of teeth, and on those days, you need a real map.” Sam suspected John Winchester had told Dean that, but that was firmly on the _Do Not Talk About_ list, only slightly below talking about Seth and above talking about Azazel unless Sam was having a vision.

He hadn’t had another vision since the met Andy, and it was sometimes easy to forget that was why he was with Dean in the first place, that Dean was always focused on finding Azazel, and that the demon wanted Sam to help him destroy the world. Usually, though, that knowledge overshadowed everything they said and did: that Azazel had taken what they loved most, that Sam could help him, and that (as much as Dean didn’t want to admit it) Dean might have to kill him because of it.

Sam couldn't do anything about any of that, so he read maps and billboards, practiced arithmetic and reading, and wrote sentences and even paragraphs in the composition notebook Dean bought for him. One day, after Sam had spent a couple hours practicing his multiplication tables in the car with Dean (and he almost always sat in the front now, so often that Dean frowned and asked if he was okay when he decided to sit in the back), Sam suggested that maybe he could learn a little more about money.

He'd been thinking about it for days. The rules said _Sam couldn't use money without Dean's permission_ , so did that mean he _could_ use money as long as he had Dean's permission? Money was one of the few things about humans Sam couldn't begin to understand. It was everywhere, motivated every human, and yet it was almost invisible, trapped mostly in tiny pieces of plastic. And, of course, if Dean ever wanted a little more of it, or if Sam pissed him off again, Sam could be sent anywhere with anyone willing to pay.

Sam may have been thinking about money for days, but he hadn't planned on the words slipping out without thinking about it. This was happening more and more around Dean--talking without carefully examining each word to make sure it wouldn't get him in trouble-- which incredibly dangerous. But he had said it, so he might as well go all in.

“I know one of the rules is ‘Sam cannot use money without your permission,’ he said quickly, “And I wouldn’t use it for that. It’s just a good way to practice my arithmetic,” Dean frowned and didn’t answer.

_Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit._

“I would want to learn it to help you, sir,” Sam said. He was saying “Sir” less and less now, but this seemed a good time to add it, “I-I know you hate paying bills, so maybe I could eventually help you with them a little, so you wouldn’t have to . . .”

“Relax Sam. I’m not mad. I just need to think it through, okay?”

“Yes s--. Yes.”

“Awesome,” Dean shot him a smile, “Now let’s play the alphabet game. The letter only counts if you read the entire word.”

There were lots of reasons, of course, why Dean wouldn’t want Sam using money. He and Jessica talked all the time about how withholding all education from hybrids and then calling them too stupid to function without a master made it easier to justify what they did. Besides, even if a hybrid somehow managed to escape, remove their collar, and dig out their tracking chip, their inability to read or use money would make it impossible to navigate the human world.

That wasn’t how Dean thought, though, so Sam wasn’t sure why Dean seemed so bothered by the idea until Dean sat him down during one of their brief visits back in Idaho.

“We got this in the mail,” he said, holding up the laminated card, “It’ll let you buy up to $50 worth of things for me. I can send you out to do some basic supply runs.”

“I . . .” Sam stared at the card. He had assumed “I’ll think about it,” was code for “No,” but Dean had gotten him a special card to help him learn how to use money.

“Thank you,” Sam turned the card over and over in his hands, trying to convince himself it was real.  

Dean shrugged, as if it wasn’t a big deal, but his face was still creased with concern.

“I know I’ll need to pretend I don’t know what any of it means,” Sam said, “I’ll just be watching, and maybe when I get home, I’ll take notes and look at the receipts.”

“I know you know that,” Dean said, but his frown just deepened. Sam had no idea what Dean was thinking, which didn’t happen often anymore. He heart began to pound.

“Sam,” Dean said finally, “Before you use this,” he waved the card, “I want to make sure you understand a couple things about money.”

Sam nodded.

“The thing about money is,” Dean spoke slowly, carefully selecting each word, which was incredibly un-Dean like, “It actually does a shitty job explaining how valuable something is.”

“You mean like how money can’t buy happiness?” Sam didn’t understand why Dean would be talking to him about this. It’s not like Sam would ever have money of his own.

“Sort of,” Dean said, “It’s more like how some things can cost a lot of money but actually be pretty worthless. Like designer clothes. They’re technically expensive, but they’re made of the same stuff we get at the thrift store, and they do the same job. On the other hand, something can technically not cost much, but still be very valuable.”

 _Oh._ “Sir, are you worried I’m going to feel bad if I realize I’m worthless?”

Dean released a frustrated sigh, “That’s exactly it, Sam. You’re not worthless. You’re worth a hell of a lot more than some appraiser or website says. It’s just the system that’s fucked up and puts all the wrong prices on things.” Dean finally looked up, “I just, I don’t want you to take whatever people might tell you out there seriously. Okay?”

“Okay, Dean,” Sam said and froze. Even though there technically wasn’t a rule against it, Sam still tried to avoid saying Dean’s name by itself, as that was a sure-fire way to piss any human off.

Instead, Dean just gave him a small smile, and stood, “Okay then, it’s time for you to go grocery shopping, Sammy.”

 

Now, Sam accepted the card and the money from Dean and entered the tiny diner. It was barely one room, small enough that even though there was just one customer, the cook, and the waitress, Sam still felt cramped.

“What demon shit?” the waiter said without looking up. Sam hadn’t told Dean that people were much more likely to use names like that when he was alone. He suspected Dean would be angrier than he was.

Sam kept his eyes to the ground and set the card and the money on the counter, “My master would like a cheeseburger and fries, ma’am.”

“Oh yea, and why does he send demon shit to get it for him?”

“He’s making a phone call, ma’am.”

The waiter snorted but called out, “One burger and fries for some lazy-ass who lets demon shit touch his food!”

“Humans,” a chillingly familiar voice said behind Sam, “Don’t ya hate’em?”

Sam spun around. Azazel grinned, “Hey kiddo. So excited we finally get to meet.”

“Dean! Dean!” Sam shouted, making a desperate flight to the door. A force like a tornado pulled him back and slammed him against the counter.

“Dean-o, can’t hear you,” Azazel said.

“No,” Sam shook his head, “I won’t. I won’t ever join you.”

“What, to save these fine souls? The ones who pull people like you apart just to see you bleed?” Azazel gestured around the tiny diner, and Sam saw that he had pinned the three humans inside it to the walls as well.

“How many times have you wished you could do this, Sammy?” Azazel said. He snapped his fingers. The three humans’ throats split open, and they fell to the ground. Sam could still hear their last, strangled gasps for breath when Azazel touched Sam’s forehead and everything went black.

* * *

Dean called Bobby as he watched Sam enter the tiny diner, “Okay Bobby, he’s grabbing food, so we have a few minutes. What’ve you got?”

“Ash and Ellen having been putting their heads together. Said they’re onto something big. Didn’t want to go into detail over the phone though. Wanted one of us to drive there.”

“I just wrapped up a case. We could probably get there middle of tomorrow.”

Bobby sighed, “Dean, we’ve talked about getting Sam too close to this.”

“I think Sam’s made his loyalties pretty damn obvious.”

“And you’re making it a hell of a lot more obvious that you’re too attached.”

Dean rolled his eyes, “Even you said you liked him Bobby. And you don’t like anyone.”

“Like and trusting with the fate of the world are two different things, boy. I’m not much further from the Roadhouse than you are. Let me take a look, see if it’s even something worth pursuing, and then we can plan our next steps.”

“Fine,” Dean said, “Anything else you’ve . . .” he stopped and frowned as the radio started to flicker. He tapped it a couple times, even though he knew exactly what it meant. Sure enough, when he looked up, the lights of the tiny diner were flickering too, and he couldn’t see Sam’s figure through the window . . . or anyone else’s.”

I need to call you back,” Dean said as he jumped out of the car and ran into the diner. He found three dead humans, sulfur, and no Sam.


	11. Debate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean can't find Sam. Sam desperately needs to change someone's mind.

_Would you run away from all this, if you could? Leave the fight to someone else?_

_I can’t let myself think like that. There’s nowhere I could run where this shit won’t find me. I know that now._

_How do you know that?_

_Azazel proved it._

* * *

Dean wasn’t surprised to find that Sam’s tracking chip had gone off-line, but it still left him with no idea of where to look for him.

“I’m telling you Bobby, if we pull in the DSC, not only will they shut us out, if they do find Sam, they’ll shoot him on sight. Or worse.”

“Dean, I hate to say this, but that could very well be what we need to do too.”

“No!” Dean didn't need to see Bobby to know he was raising his eyebrows. He took a deep breath, trying to sound something like a professional, "He didn’t leave. He was taken. I’d bet my life on it.”

“That’s exactly what you are betting. And my life, and the world.”

Dean refused to follow Bobby’s line of thinking. “We go to the roadhouse. We see what they’ve got. We move from there.”

“Dean . . .”

Dean ended the call and pressed his foot to the gas pedal, “Sammy, I beg you. Don’t let me down now.”

* * *

Azazel left Sam in a ghost town, along with Andy, a hybrid named Ava, who had visions, another named Lily, who killed people by touching them, and Jake, a human with super strength.

“You’re not actually a human though, are you?” Sam said. “You’re like Andy, a hybrid the DSC didn’t find.”

“My doctor discovered it by accident,” Jake said, “It didn’t make sense, because my test when I was born came back clean. She helped my parents keep it quiet. I was gonna visit them today, but now…”  

“I’m sorry,” Sam said, “Really, I am, but we gotta find a way to get out of here before the demon comes back.”

“Oh, and then what?” Lily said, “Am I supposed to go back to my master and say ‘Sorry I was gone for a while! A demon kidnapped me. Should I start cleaning the kitchen or the bathroom?”

“Dean,” Sam turned to Andy, “If Dean’s still out there. He’ll be able to help.”

“Are you sure, Sam?” Andy said, “Dean’s seems like a decent guy for a human, but he’s still a hunter.”

“A hunter! You want a _hunter_ to find us, followed by all his DSC friends,” Lily stepped back, “I’ll take my chances alone.” She turned and began walking away.

“Lily! No! We need to stick together!” Sam called after her, but she ignored them, went behind one of the empty buildings, and vanished from sight.

* * *

Dean met Bobby at the Roadhouse and found it in ashes.

"It was this way when I got here," Bobby said without preamble. I'm calling Ellen and Jo but haven't heard anything. He didn't sound hopeful. Dean wasn't either.

They picked through the rubble, searching for signs that anyone had made it out, and for hints of what Ash had discovered that was so important. 

They only found Ash's charred arm.  

“Shit. Shit. _Shit,”_ Dean left the rubble as quickly as he could without spraining an ankle, “What the hell do we do now?”

“You’re not gonna like it, Dean. But the DSC . . .”

“No.” Dean shook his head against a sudden dash of pain.

"Dean, good people  _died_ in there."

"I said-" Dean pressed a hand to his head as the pain struck again. 

“You alright?”

“Fine,” Dean gasped. Bobby and the ruins of the roadhouse disappeared, replaced by a fragmented image of Sam. Then a large bell. Then Sam again.

Then the images and the pain disappeared, leaving Dean dizzy.  

“Dean, you alright?”

“I just saw him, Bobby," Dean said, a tiny shred of hope rooting itself in his chest, "I saw Sam, and a bell _._ ”

“A bell?”

“Yea a big bell with some kind of design on it.”

“A design? Was it a tree?”

“Yeah,” Dean rubbed his head. He hoped Sam’s visions didn’t hurt this bad, “How did you . . .”

“I know where Sam is.”

* * *

It took some effort—primarily Jake nearly getting clawed to death by a demon—but Sam managed to convince the others their best chance was to stay together and find a way to contact Dean. Andy tried to send images of their location by touching the laminated card, although Sam wasn’t sure how that could help if none of them had any idea where they were either.

Then they found Lily hanging from a tower, and Sam realized they couldn’t leave.

“Well then what are we supposed to do!” Andy demanded, “Just sit around!”

“No. We find a place to defend ourselves. We need to look for iron, salt, anything that would help.”

He set off towards the nearest building to look. To his considerable surprise, everyone else followed.

They managed to find two large bags of salt, some iron rods, and a knife, which was enough to protect a room in the sturdiest of the houses. They talked a little, trading terse stories about their lives. The people they missed. Jake worked at his parents’ restaurant to keep out of sight. Ava was in love with one of the hybrids at her owner’s hotel. Andy was getting more involved with the Sympathizer movement.

Eventually, darkness fell, and Sam offered to take first watch. It was harder to stay awake without listening to the others, but Sam only closed his eyes for a second when . . .

“Hey there, bucko!”

“You!” Sam snarled, getting to his feet, “Everyone! He’s here!” He looked around. None of the others moved. “I’m asleep.”

“Always were a smart one, Sammy,” Azazel said, “Let’s walk.” He turned and walked out of the room, apparently certain Sam would follow.

He did.

“I wish we’d had a chance to meet before now,” Azazel said, “I kept tabs on you of course, but the timing was never right for a face-to-face chat.”

“I’m going to rip you apart.”

“When you wake up, give it your best shot,” Azazel said with a wink, “Now Sam, let’s talk about why you’re here.”

“I know why I’m here. You want me as part of your army.”

“Ah, this close,” Azazel held his fingers together in Sam’s face, “But I’ve already got an army. Almost, anyway. What I’m looking for is a general. And you, Sammy, you’ve made the final four.”

“You want,” Sam turned and looked back at the dilapidated house behind him, “You’ve been killing us off. All of us!”

“Survival of the fittest,” Azazel said, “But all your kids’ sacrifices are for the greater good. Soon enough, they’ll be celebrated as heroes and saints among hybrids.”

Sam stopped, “What are you talking about?”

Azazel gave him an indulgent smile, “You know exactly what I’m talking about, Sam. These idiotic, hate-filled humans were terrified of beings like you up until they realized they could make a profit. After that . . .” Azazel grabbed Sam’s wrist and turned it to show his bar code, “Well, kid, you’re a trillion-dollar industry. Everything you’ve endured, all that meaningless labor, all that torture and rape, being torn from the people you love and watching them die, all of it was to make a buck,” Azazel shook his head, “I gotta tell you, Sam. I didn’t give humans enough credit at first, but they have very nearly out-tortured hell.”

“It was you,” Sam said, “You ordered the first demon raids. You were trying to make humans afraid of us.”

“What can I say,” Azazel spread his arms, “Prince of Hell.”

“Well then, all of this. All that we’ve suffered and lost. It’s because of you!”

“Weren’t you listening, kid? I might have staged a few gruesome massacres and fabricated a few reports making it seem like you’re a different species,” Azazel shrugged, “I was expecting some brutal murders. Maybe a restrictive law or two, but an entire industry? Even I didn’t think humans would do that, and now? Now those stupid, greedy bastards have bred an army, and it’s in every factory, every mine, every field, and nearly every home. All that army needs is a leader.”

“No,” Sam shook his head, “No. We know better. _I_ know better. Your demons murdered people I cared about. People I loved! We know demons would screw us over even more than humans do.”

Azazel tilted his head, “That so?”

“Yes.”

“Let’s see about that, shall we?” Azazel pressed his fingers to Sam’s head again. The ghost town disappeared, and they were in a small room with pale blue walls and a white crib. A baby dressed in soft blue cooed at a slowly rotating mobile, twisting his blanket in his tiny fist.

Sam stepped forward and peered over the side of the crib, “Who is that?”

“Come on, Sam. I thought you were the smart one.”

“That’s not . . .” Sam looked between the baby and the tattoo on his wrist, “I came from a factory.”

“Don’t worry. We’ll cover that in Act II,” Azazel said, “For now, watch.”

Another figure appeared. He smiled down at the baby with a familiar leer, slit one of his wrists with the nail of his other thumb and held his wrist over the baby’s— _his_ —mouth.

“What are you doing to me?”

“Better than mother’s milk.” 

"You . . ." but Sam stopped because a blonde woman in a long nightgown was rushing into the room. _His mother._

_“You.”_

“She knew you?” Sam demanded. Azazel just smiled.

The other Azazel also smiled, and the woman, _his mother_ , was slammed back and began sliding up the wall and onto the ceiling directly over Sam, blood blossoming across her stomach.

“You get the idea,” Azazel said and snapped his fingers. as the ends of the woman’s hair began to smoke. 

Sam rounded on the demon. “So this is what you did? To all of us! How is that supposed to make me trust you?”

“It’s not,” Azazel said, “This is.” 

 

This time, they appeared in a larger room with cream colored walls. A nurse with blonde hair pulled into a tight bun was leaning over a tiny hospital bed. A gold heart pendant hung from her neck, swinging and glinting in the overly bright hospital lights.

Sam didn't give a fuck what the demon was trying to show him. Not when he was still picturing that room, that normal life, a mother who loved him. What else had there been? A father? Siblings? Aunts and uncles and friends? People who had loved him. Wanted him. Cared for him. 

He rounded on the demon. “So this is what you did? To all of us! How is that supposed to make . .  me trust you?”

“It’s not,” Azazel said, “This is." He nodded towards the woman, “Don’t be shy,” Azazel said, and Sam stepped forward and saw the woman was leaning over a squirming baby . . . him. There was a tiny mask over his face and he was connected to several machines apparently tracking his vitals as the nurse smiled over him.

The realization hit him like a semi. They hadn’t figured it out yet.

“You’re looking good, little man,” the nurse said in a falsely high voice, “You must have had an angel keeping you safe during that fire.”

“Not quite,” Azazel smirked.

“Just need to do one more test,” she said, selecting two small devices from a table. She took the first, which was about the size of his finger and placed it against his heel. She pressed a button on the top of the device, there was a small click, and the nurse pulled the device away. A drop of blood blossomed at the spot.

“Humans first made these to track glucose levels in their blood,” Azazel said, “Then they found another use.”

Sam clenched his fists but didn’t respond. It was like in the mines, when you heard the rumble of a cave-in but didn’t have time to move. You could only hope to God it wouldn’t crush you.

Except Sam knew how this ended. He could only look on as the rock started to crumble.

“It’s okay,” the nurse cooed as Sam started to cry, “We’re almost done.” She took the second device, which looked like an oval with small screen on one side and a thin, white stick on the end, pressed the stick to the bead of blood, and set the device back on the table. “There we go. Just need to wait ten seconds, and you’ll be all done.” She leaned over again and tickled his belly lightly, her necklace hanging near his face. Sam’s younger self giggled and reached for it. The nurse pulled back, “Nice try,” she said with a laugh. 

The second device on the table started to buzz. The nurse frowned and picked it up. It continued buzzing, and the screen was flashing red. The nurse dropped the device back on the table with a shriek jerked her hand away from Sam, as if he burned. She grabbed a phone hanging on the wall, “I need Doctor Earl here straight away, and call the DSC. The baby they pulled from that fire is a hybrid. Hurry!”

“One more stop,” Azazel said.

The scene dissolved and reformed into a smaller, bright white room. Two figures were standing across from each other at a high table: the nurse from earlier and a short man with a neat red beard. Sam couldn’t make out their voices over the wails coming from the center of the table. He didn’t need Azazel’s prodding to get closer this time. He drew near and saw it was him. He wasn’t connected to any machines now, and his face was purple from screaming, but it was definitely him.

“Oh God, can’t we make it shut up?” the nurse stared down at him in open disgust, “I can’t believe I was _playing_ with it. How can you touch it Rob, now that you know what it is?”

“I’ve got an excellent bottle of scotch waiting for me back home, Diane” the man—Rob apparently—said. He was pressing a stethoscope to Sam’s chest and frowning, “Well, you’re right. Its heartbeat’s steady, and its airways are clear. Look like it’s gonna be fine.”

“Oh God, I hope it’s not because I treated it,” Diane said, taking a step back, “That’d make me sick.”

“I’m sure it’s not,” Roby said, “Demon shits are like cockroaches. The never die when they should.”

“I hope you’re right. Did you hear what happened to the mother?”

“She was probably in on it too,” Rob said, “It’s not like these things get infected out of nowhere. I only feel for the father. Should’ve left it in the crib.”

The door opened, and a man and a woman entered. Everything from their dark suits to their posture to their expressionless faces said DSC, said, danger, and Sam stepped back, despite himself.

“Prognosis,” the DSC woman said.

“It’ll live,” Rob said, “Don’t want it in my hospital, though.”

“We’ll take care of it,” the DSC man said, “There’s a factory half an hour from here. They’re used to taking ones this small.”

“The Father give you any trouble?” Diane asked.

The DSC woman snorted, “Of course not. Why would he want a constant, demonic reminder of his wife’s betrayal? Took him all of ten seconds to sign it over. Didn’t even want to see it.”

“Don’t blame him,” Diane said, “The thing creeps me out.”

“You get the idea,” Azazel said and snapped his fingers.

 

Sam woke up to Ava’s screams. He jumped to his feet, meeting Jake’s eyes across the room.

“Oh God,” Andy moaned.

“Stay here,” Sam said, picking up one of the iron rods, “Make sure nothing gets in.” Then he and Jake ran out, following Ava’s screams.

She was curled in front of the tower where Lily’s body still swung slowly in the wind, sobbing with her hands pressed over her ears.

“Ava!” Sam knelt down, shaking her shoulder, “Ava! Are you okay?”

“I-I-I was just trying to get her body d-down,” Ava sobbed, “And then I s-saw t-the demon again!”

“Where?” Jake demanded, “Where did it go?”

 _Why are you still alive?_ Sam wondered. Instead, he said, “Let’s go back. We gotta stay together until we find a way out.”

Ava nodded, still weeping silently, and allowed Sam to pull her to her feet. They rushed back to the room as quickly as Ava’s trembling limbs would allow . . . and found Andy on the floor with his neck twisted at an impossible angle.

“How the fuck . . .” Jake trailed off. Sam dropped to the floor next to Andy, checking for a pulse he knew he wouldn’t find.

“Fuck, Andy. I’m so sorry,” Sam said. He didn’t understand. How could this have happened when the room was . . .

“The salt line’s broken,” Jake said coldly. Sam hadn’t noticed him cross to the window, “Which one of you did it?”

Sam slowly got to his feet, looking between Ava and Jake.

“W-what are you talking about?” Ava squeaked.  

_What I’m looking for is a general._

“You weren’t trying to get Lily’s body down,” Sam said, “You were drawing us out, knew that someone would stay behind.”

“No! I-I was . . .”

“Cut the shit,” Jake said. Ava looked at him, then back at Sam, and smiled, “You guys caught on quick. Usually no one figures it out . . . until I tell them of course.”

“How could you?” Sam demanded.

“I spent two decades scrubbing the same toilets in a swanky Hilton where the only thing I had to look forward to was a quick fuck with a random ass I convinced myself I loved. Coming here? Embracing what I can really do? It’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Every few days more of you show up and I pick you off one by one.”  

Jake was moving silently towards them. Sam kept his eyes on Ava, “But other hybrids? None of us ever hurt you.”

“It’s a big, ugly world out there Sam. Hybrids like us gotta fight to stay alive.” Her smile widened, “And it’s fu—”. 

Jake wrapped his hands around her throat, snapping it a sharp _crack_. She crumpled next to Andy.

Sam swallowed, “Thanks.”

“Thanks for keeping her distracted,” Jake shot him a smile, “Glad at least some of us could keep our heads on.”

Sam’s eyes fell on Andy again. Andy, the first hybrid he’d met with powers. The one who showed him how he could make his own choices. The one who offered to free him . . .

He shook himself. They had to keep moving. Once it was over, maybe he could convince Dean to bring him back so he could give Andy a proper funeral.

“We should be able to get out of here, right?” he said, “If it was Ava’s demon trapping us . . .”

Jake nodded, “I think so, yeah. If we’re careful.”

“Okay. If we come across any humans. . .”

“I’ll tell them you’re mine. We got lost hiking.” The words were right, but Jake wasn’t meeting his eyes.

_And you, Sammy, you’ve made the final four._

They left the house. Never quite looking at each other. Never looking away either.

The night was inky black, the moon providing just enough light to lengthen the shadows of the buildings and trees. By unspoken agreement, the walked towards the forest, staying several feet apart.

Then Jake stopped, “Sam. We gotta talk.”   

Sam tightened his grip on the iron rod, “Jake, whatever the demon told you, it was lying.”

“It wasn’t lying when it said only one of us was gonna make it out of here.”

“My master . . . he’s been hunting this demon for decades. He’ll find us and then . . .”

“Then what? You go back to kissing his ass? Our people continue to be enslaved, imprisoned, raped, murdered? This is our chance to put everything right. One of us just has to make the sacrifice.”

“Azazel’s lying. He’s not going to free us! He’s the one who enslaved us. Look what he’s making us do to each other!”  

“I’m not pretending he’s perfect. Hell, not even saying he’s good. All I’m saying is he’s the best chance we’ve got.” Jake drew a large knife from his belt. “I’m sorry, Sam, but I’ve got a family that loves me. That needs me. What have you got?”

He lunged, and Sam jumped out of the way. They circled each other: Sam swinging wildly with the rod, Jake trying to avoid lunge at him with the knife. Then Jake leaned right, Sam swung the rod towards him, and Jake feinted to the left, knocking the rod out of Sam’s hand and shoving him to the ground, planting a knee on his chest.

“Please, Jake. You don’t have to do this.”

Jake raised the knife. Sam gripped Jake’s wrist with both of his own, yanking them to the left hard enough for Jake to lose his balance and Sam shove him off. Sam jumped back to his feet, grabbing the iron rod just in time to knock the knife away before Jake plunged it into his leg. Jake rolled out of the reach of the rod, grabbing the knife again as he went and jumping back up to his feet. He ran towards Sam, knife aiming for his chest, and Sam swung the rod as hard has he could.

Too hard.

The rod hit Jake’s head with a sickening _crack_ and Jake crumbled, blood gushing over his face and into the mud.

“Jake?” Sam slid to his knees. _Holy fuck there was so, so much blood._ He pressed his hand to Jake’s neck and couldn’t pretend to be surprised when he found nothing.

He needed to leave. He needed to find Dean. At the very least he needed to be far, far away from here before the DSC found him with the corpse of someone that they would assume was human.

Instead, Sam stayed on his knees in the bloody mud and stared at the body of the man he killed.


	12. Walk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam and Dean go for a very long walk.

According to Bobby, the bell with the tree Dean saw was the symbol of Cold Oak, South Dakota, which was apparently the most haunted ghost town in the country.

“Well that’s a good sign,” Dean said dryly. 

“You sure the DSC ain’t the right call, kid? I mean this is evil central.”

“Since when did you start drinking the DSC koolaid? Those guys are paper pushers and you know it, and if they get hold of Sam. . .”

“Dean you need to admit that the Sam we knew, or thought we knew, might be gone. If he’s signed on with yellow-eyes. . .”

“Then I’ll handle it.” Bobby frowned. “I’ll _handle it_ ,” Dean repeated, even as the words tied his stomach in knots. _It won't come to that_ , he told himself, _Sam didn’t leave, he was taken. And I’m gonna find him._

"Alright," Bobby sighed, "But if your blind faith in this hybrid gets us killed, I'm gonna haunt your dead ass."

Dean couldn't bring himself to laugh, "Let's go," he said instead, "It's a long drive to South Dakota."  

Despite Dean's greater than usual disregard for speed limits, the drive to to Cold Oak took the entire day. As they got closer, the paved highway gradually turned to gravel, then dirt, and then finally intractable mud, forcing them to go the last couple miles on foot on a gradually narrowing path through a dense forest. 

Finally, the trees cleared, revealing the dark outlines of building against the inky blue sky. 

“Sam!” Dean bellowed, ignoring Bobby's glare and running down towards the remains of the town, “SAM! Where are you?”

No one answered. Nothing moved.

“SAMMY!”

“Dean!” Bobby called. Dean stopped, turning to Bobby, who pointed his flashlight to spot of ground next to a deteriorating fence. It took a second, but Dean eventually saw the human-shaped figure kneeling there.

“Sam!” Dean ran to the figure because it was Sam. He was beginning to make out the shape of his head and shoulders, “Sam! Are you . . .”

Dean stopped short. There was a body lying between him and Sam, and Sam was staring at his own, bloody hands. Dean glanced his flashlight over the corpse and sure enough, there was no tattoo or collar.

_Murder’s against the rules_ his brain supplied, and Dean almost laughed—or perhaps cried--at the idiocy of the thought.

Bobby caught up to him and took in the scene. Without a word, he cocked his pistol and pointed it at Sam’s head. Dean opened his mouth to call him off, but Bobby wouldn’t listen, and if Sam really _had . . ._

Sam looked up at the gun, as if he just realized they were there. Then he looked at Bobby, before finally hovering around Dean’s shoulders. “H-he wanted to join him, sirs.” Tears coursed down Sam’s cheeks, and he buried his head in his hands.

“Join who, Sam?” Sam didn’t respond, and Dean bit back a curse, “Sam. I want to help you, but you gotta tell me what the hell’s going on. You killed a _human_.”

“Not human,” Sam shook his head, “Hybrid. Like Andy. His family kept it a secret. The demon only wanted one of us.”

“You mean this was what, some gladiator tournament?”

Sam nodded, “I tried to keep everyone safe. But Ava killed Lily and Andy. Then Jake said one of us had to make a sacrifice so the other could lead the demon’s army. Could lead the revolution.”

“Revolution?” Bobby said, “Against who?”

Sam looked up again, eyes hovering at Bobby’s waist, “Against humans, sir.”

“Holy shit,” Bobby said, “You mean Azazel wants to overthrow humanity and put you guys in charge.”

Sam shook his head, “No sir. He was lying to Jake. Azazel only wants one hybrid. He’ll kill the rest just like the humans. I tried to explain, but,” Sam’s eyes flickered briefly to the corpse, “He wouldn’t listen.”

“Where is he, Sam?” Dean crouched so they were roughly eye-level, “Where’s Azazel?”

“Right behind you,” a voice said. Sam jumped to his feet, and Dean whirled around and met a pair of gleaming yellow eyes. Eyes that had once stared at him from his father’s face. That had once pinned him to a wall and squeezed his organs like a sponge. That had once burned his mother and brother alive. That had, many years later, killed his father. 

Those eyes had stolen everything.

The eyes glinted, “Long time no see, Dean.” Azazel smiled and waved a lazy hand. A force like an impossibly strong magnet pulled Dean down and pinned him on his back to the ground like a stranded beetle. He heard Bobby go down beside him.

“Leave them alone!” Sam got to his feet, previous timidity gone and met Azazel’s eyes with clenched fists. Perhaps it was Dean’s place on the ground or the seething fury in Sam’s eyes, but Sam seemed much taller, much _larger_ than Dean had ever realized.

He was almost afraid of him.  

“Let them go,” Sam said, “Or I swear to God, I’ll tear you apart.”

“They don’t matter,” the demon said, “I’m here to congratulate you, Sammy. I knew you had it in you!”

“No,” Sam shook his head, “I told you. I’m never joining you.”

“Why? For them?” Azazel kicked Dean’s side, and Dean tried not to remember his organs ripping themselves apart. “For the great and good Dean? Who treats you so well because he gives you workbooks and orange juice but still keeps you as his slave when you both know you don’t deserve it?”

“Sammy . . .” the demon stamped on Dean’s stomach, and he cried out in pain and fought to breathe around the pressure on his chest.

“No,” Sam said, “For Jess. For Rhee. For B and Maria. For the millions of other hybrids you’ll torture and kill if I do what you want.”

“My. My. My. Such strong words,” Azazel said, “Or at least, they would be if I believed them. But your heart has always been much too soft Sammy boy.” He snapped his fingers and Dean could suddenly move again, but he barely made it to his knees before a familiar searing pain split his stomach. He curled forward with a grunt, blood dripping from his mouth.

“Dean!” Sam leaped to Dean’s side, threw his arm around Dean’s shoulder and pulled him up. Dean leaned into the touch but couldn’t disguise his moans as another glob of blood spurted from his mouth.

"Get your claws out of him you piece of shit," Bobby growled. 

“I’m gonna make this real easy for you, kid,” Azazel said, “Come with me or watch the only living person you care about throw up his lungs.”

“Sammy . . .” Dean managed around a mouthful of blood. Sam looked down at his hands then met Dean’s eyes, and Dean knew.

“I’m sorry,” Sam said. He pressed Dean briefly to his chest before guiding him to the ground. Then he stood and took a deep breath.

“What do you want me to do?”

Azazel smiled, "That's more like it." Then he seized Sam's wrist and grabbed a handful of Dean's hair.

"Let them go," Bobby snarled, still struggling against the force pinning him to the ground. "Let them go or I'll--"  

Dean never heard the end of the sentence. In an instant, the dark landscape around them had been replaced by what looked like an empty bedroom.

"Where's Bobby?" Dean growled as Azazel began to pat Dean down and remove his weapons, jacket, outer shirt, and watch.

"Where we left him, right as rain. I'm sure he's beginning a desperate search for you boys as we speak.

"And where are we?" Sam demanded.

"Consider it a waiting room. I'm afraid you're not quite ready to get to work yet." Azazel snapped cuffs around Dean's wrists. Sam stepped forward, eyes blazing, but stopped at a warning look from Azazel.

“You said you’d let him go!”

“I said nothing of the kind,” Azazel said as he dragged Dean to a radiator directly across from the bedroom door and secured Dean's cuffed wrists tightly to it with a short length of chain, “Consider Dean your motivation to get with the program. The sooner I know you’re on board, the sooner Dean gets to walk out of here.”

“Fine. I’m with you. All the way.”

The demon laughed, “Cute, Sam. Now, we need to talk. Alone,” he jerked his head toward the door. Sam opened his mouth to respond, looked at the blood drying on Dean’s chin, and left the room. The demon followed, scooping up Dean's belongings in one arm and giving Dean a last wink before flicking off the lights and shutting the door behind him.

The hours passed slowly. Dean managed to keep some track of time by watching as slivers of grey morning light slipped around the sides of the single window’s closed blinds, brightened throughout the day, and then gradually faded back to darkness. It wasn’t much, especially when the only things Dean had to look at were his chained and throbbing hands, the brown carpet, and the empty, off-white walls. He couldn’t even hear anything. No cars or birds, not even the sounds of Azazel and Sam’s voices. He didn’t know if it was some kind of demon trick sound-proofing the room or if he really was that alone. He didn’t know which was worse.

In the end, he could only find patterns in the popcorn ceiling, doze as much as his burning shoulders and arms would allow, and hope that Bobby managed to find him and that Sam would hold out against whatever Azazel was doing to him.

It had been dark again for several hours when the door opened slowly, “Dean,” Sam said quietly, “Are you awake?”

“Yeah,” Dean said. He coughed and cleared his throat, still not able to get rid of the iron taste in his mouth, “You okay, Sammy?”

“I’m fine,” Sam said. “Hold on, I’m gonna to try and find the light switch.” Dean heard him run his hands along the wall followed by a quiet _click,_ and a dull light flickered to life.

“I suppose that’s the best we’re gonna get,” Sam said as the light flickered again, “Seeing as we’re about twenty feet away from the world’s most powerful demon. He sat down in front of Dean then set a plastic cup and bowl down between them.

“Right,” Dean said. He looked down at the cup, which had water, and the bowl, which had . . .

“I’m sorry,” Sam grimaced as Dean stared at the small bowl of feed, “He thinks it’s funny.”

“Demons always have a shitty sense of humor.”

“Yeah. He also,” Sam rubbed his jaw, “He also won’t let me untie you so . . .”

“Awesome,” Dean closed his eyes and leaned his head against the side of the radiator. Throughout the day, his arms and hands oscillated from burning to going numb. Hunger mingled with the lingering pain of crushed organs, and the rest of him was stiff and sore from sitting on the floor for so long. Everything blurred together so that nothing felt real, nothing mattered. Dean just needed to rest.

“Dean. _Dean_.”

Dean blinked and looked up, surprised by the authority in Sam’s voice.

“I don’t know how long I can be here,” Sam said, meeting Dean’s frown with a grave, unflinching stare, “And I don’t know when you’ll eat next. So, you need to eat as fast as possible.”

Dean nodded.

“Good,” Sam picked up a small handful of feed, and Dean opened his mouth. Sam pushed the feed in, and Dean began chewing. It was like eating pebbles. The feed stole what little moisture remained in his mouth, lining his mouth with a coarse powder that tasted of mostly dead roadkill. Dean spat the feed out and leaned his head back against the radiator.

“Dean!”

“I swear to God Sam, I’d rather eat my own shit than that stuff. I’ll take my chances with just the water.”

Sam grabbed Dean’s chin with an unforgiving grip and pulled him forward until their noses were touching.

“There are hybrids who would kill for the food in that bowl,” Sam said, “Not to mention, there is a _demon_ in the next room who is going to keep you alive just long enough to use you as leverage against me. So, I swear to _you_ Dean, you will eat this if I have to shove it down your throat.”

With that, Sam released Dean’s chin and picked up another scoop of feed, “Now, swallow, don’t chew. Once you’ve eaten it all, I’ll give you the water. That’ll wash the taste out some. Understand?”

Dean nodded, and Sam shoved the feed in his mouth. Dean swallowed, nearly gagging against the horrific taste, but Sam was already pressing more feed in, so Dean didn’t have a chance to think about what the hell he might be eating. He just swallowed, and swallowed, and swallowed until the bowl was empty and Sam let out a sigh.

“Good,” he lifted the cup, “Take one mouthful and swish it around to get the taste out, then down the rest. There isn’t enough in here to give you cramps.” Dean obeyed and within seconds, the water was gone, even if it did nothing to ease his thirst.

“That it?”

“Not quite,” Sam held the cup up again, “I don’t think Azazel’s going to let you use the bathroom. So . . .”

“Fuck me.”

“That’s against the rules,” Sam said mildly as he reached forward and undid Dean’s pants, “Don’t worry. I promise I won’t compare your dick to others I’ve seen.”

With practiced speed, Sam pulled down Dean’s pants and boxers, helped him do his business, and pulled them back up again, setting the now-full-again cup aside.

“Now we’re done,” Sam scooted around until he was sitting against the wall, shoulder-to-shoulder with Dean and let out a heavy sigh.

“Who taught you how to,” Dean waggled his fingers at Sam, “Do that?”

“What?”

“That snapping me out of my moping, forcing me to eat thing.”

“Oh, that. I guess it was probably Rhee.”

“Who’s Rhee?” Sam had said that name to Azazel, but Dean had never heard it before.

“Rhee was my mother . . . my second mother, I guess. She’s the one who raised me in the factory.”

“Your second mother?” Sam had never mentioned any sort of parent, and now he was talking about two mothers, “You mean, aside from the one who gave birth to you?”

“Yeah, I guess,” Sam rubbed his face with trembling hands.

“Sorry,” Dean said, “This isn’t the time for a sharing-and-caring session.”

“What other time is there?” Sam’s lips quirked up, “Anyway, I’d rather talk to you about this shit than yellow eyes.”

“Sam, what is he . . .”

Sam shook his head, “I’m not allowed to talk about anything that happened after we got here. Anyway, yeah, I guess I had another mother. She died, like Andy’s.” he fiddled with a stray thread on his jeans.

“Is he the one who told you that?” Dean nodded at the door.

“Showed me, actually, full-on virtual reality. He came to my nursery and bled in my mouth. When my Dad found out, he immediately gave me to the DSC. Didn’t even say goodbye.” Sam covered his face with his hands and took a shuddering breath.

“Demons lie, Sam.”

“Not about this,” Sam lowered his hands, “He didn’t need to. You and I have suspected this since we met Andy anyway. Now . . . now we know.”

“Well, then your Dad’s a dick.”

“I can’t let myself think about it,” Sam turned his head to look at Dean with a sad smile, “You should’ve seen it though, Dean. The nursery. It was beautiful. Painted blue with this huge crib in the center, and a dresser and bookshelf to match. Everything was covered in books and stuffed animals. It was . . .” Sam cleared his throat and stared back down at his hands.

“It sounds nice, Sam.”

“It was,” Sam nodded, “It was. I kinda wish . . .”

The door creaked open, and a pair of yellow eyes glowed from the dark hallway, “Break’s over Sammy.”

Sam nodded and stood, grabbing the bowl and cup as he did, and left the room without looking back.

* * *

Sam returned the next night, just as Dean’s hunger passed the threshold from being one of his many discomforts to a source of pain rivaling that in his wrists.

“Oh, thank God,” he said when Sam entered.

Sam’s lips twitched, but the smile didn’t reach the heavy bags under his eyes, “Feed doesn’t sound so bad now, does it?”

“Yeah,” Dean said as Sam sat in front of him, “Doesn’t change the fact that once we’re out of here, you’re never eating this shit again.”

Sam picked up some feed, “We won’t survive today if we’re thinking about tomorrow.”

“Rhee again?”

Sam nodded and pressed the feed to Dean’s mouth. Dean felt Sam’s fingers vibrating, probably as a result of some mix of terror and exhaustion. Bringing it up would only disorient Sam further, so Dean just opened his mouth and let Sam push the first mouthful of feed in. They managed the first couple swallows, but at the third mouthful Sam’s hand jerked against Dean’s lips, and half the feed fell down his shirt.

“Shit.” Sam grabbed frantically for the bits of feed, “Shit, Dean. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Dean said as Sam kept brushing at his shirt, spreading the feed out more than anything, “Hey, Sam! Look at me!”

Sam looked up, eyes wide and rimmed in purple from sleeplessness. His hair was a greasy, tousled mess that only made his face more ashen. Dean figured Sam worked far worse than he did by now. _What the hell was that bastard doing to him?_  

“It’s okay,” Dean said, “It’s gonna be okay. It was just a little.”

“But Dean, there’s hardly any. You’re getting even less than I did at the brothel. . .”

“Yeah, and I’m just sitting on my ass. My point is,” he continued as Sam opened his mouth to argue, “It’s not going to make much of a difference either way. Okay?”

Sam took a deep breath, “Okay. You’re right. You’re right.”

They finished in silence. Once Dean had drained the water (there was less than before, which sucked) he tried to talk Sam out of helping him piss, saying that he didn’t really need to go. Sam insisted, reminding Dean, once again, that they couldn’t exactly depend on Azazel’s hospitality. It was harder, this time, with Sam’s shaking fingers, and they splattered a little. Dean didn’t say anything and hoped Sam didn’t notice. He looked dazed enough that it seemed possible.

“Okay,” Sam sighed as he finished zipping Dean up, “Okay. We’re done. He rubbed his hands down his face, “Oh God, _Dean_.”

Sam was trembling all over now, and Dean realized that it must have taken all of Sam’s concentration to keep himself as steady as he had.

“What is he _doing to you_ , Sam?”

Sam shook his head and rubbed his face again. This time, his hands came away wet, “Please don’t ask me that. Dean. Please don’t fucking ask.”

“Okay, okay. Well what can I do? What can I do to help?”

“I don’t . . . I don’t know. I’m just so _tired,_ Dean.”

“Well then lie down,” Dean nodded at his own lap, “Lie down here. Or next to me. Or across the room. Whatever you want.”

Sam just stared at him, “But Dean, I’m . . .” Sam’s fingers brushed over his collar, “And you’re--I couldn’t.”

“Sam, you and I passed whatever bullshit boundaries hybrids and owners are supposed to have _months_ ago. And I should have let it happen a lot sooner than that. Azazel was right. I knew you didn’t deserve what you got, and you sure as hell don’t deserve what’s happening now. Now, do you want to lie down?” Sam nodded slowly. “Okay,” Dean did his best to wag his fingers towards his lap, “Then lie down.”

For all his initial reticence, it took Sam seconds to curl on Dean’s lap and rest his head over his heart. He didn’t fit, not with his long limbs and Dean hunched over the radiator, but Sam just buried his face in Dean’s shirt, and Dean made low shushing sounds he barely remembered from a mother who felt more like a dream every day.

When Azazel came for Sam, not long later, Dean’s shirt was wet, but he also thought Sam stood a little taller as he left the room.

* * *

Sunlight barely streamed through the blinds when the door opened again. Dean stiffened. It had only been a few hours since Sam's last visit, and kidnappers breaking their patterns was rarely a good thing. Sure enough, Azazel, not Sam, entered the room.

“Hiya Dean,” Azazel smirked as he took in Dean’s hunched form over the radiator.

“Where’s Sam?”

Azazel rolled his eyes, “You should be a lot more worried about yourself than Sammy, kiddo. You’re a temporary nuisance.”

Dean’s shirt was still slightly wet from Sam’s tears, and this more than anything fueled Dean’s snarled response, “What do you want with him?”

“You’re about to get an idea,” the demon pulled apart the chain attaching Dean’s cuffed hands to the radiator and dragged him to his feet. Dean swayed as his limbs struggled to remember how to work again.

“Get used to it,” Azazel said, “We’ve got a long walk ahead of us.” His grip tightened on Dean’s arm, and then they were standing in the early morning sunlight. The earth was cracked and covered in dull scrub. The sun on Dean’s back was already hot, dry, and unforgiving. What few trees Dean saw in the distance offered only mocking relief.

In front of him, Dean saw Sam, wearing heavy work gloves and goggles, bent close to the ground cutting something with a circular saw.

“Sam’s license in home repair sure has come in handy,” Azazel grinned and pulled Dean forward. Sam stopped and looked up at them.

“Keep going,” Azazel said, “I just wanted Dean to be here when it happened.”

Sam’s lips tightened, but he bent back down and restarted the saw. After a few more seconds, Dean understood.

“Railroad tracks.”

“Largest devil’s trap in the world. I’ve been wanting to get in here for a long, long time, but good ol’ Sam’s kind enough to help me out, even if his stubbornness means we have to do this the round-about way. Aaand there it is.”

Sam stopped sawing, lifted up his goggles, and wiped the sweat from his face. He had cut a small piece, no more than six inches, from both sides of the track. It was all the demon needed. Still grinning, Azazel stepped over the rails, dragging Dean with him. Then he turned and looked down at Sam.

“Come on Sam, we’ve got twenty-five miles to cover, and we’re on a schedule.”

“I don’t . . . you don’t need to walk,” Sam’s face gleamed red with sweat. His t-shirt (still the one from the diner) stuck to him, and the beginning of a sunburn scorched his face and exposed arms.

“You’re right, I don’t,” Azazel agreed, “But this is all about the journey for you, Sam. Now,” Azazel nodded at Dean, “How long are you going to delay me?”

Sam bowed his head for a moment then staggered to his feet, dropped the goggles and gloves to the ground, and followed.

 

They made quick time at first. Azazel set a punishing pace, unimpeded by trivialities like exhaustion and hunger. Sam followed, no more than a foot or two away from Dean. He kept his head low to his chest, arms dangling at his sides, glancing back every minute or so to make sure Dean was still there. Dean could have gone a little quicker—his bound hands did screw with his balance, but the flat, barren ground didn’t give him much to trip over—but twenty-five miles in the desert was a long way, and Dean had no desire to keep Azazel’s schedule.

It didn’t take long for Dean to have another reason to stay in the back. Sam’s head kept drooping, and he had started trembling again, or at least, he began trembling violently enough for Dean to see at a distance.

“Sam?” he finally said after Sam stumbled, about four miles in. Sam shook his head, as if that be enough to comfort Dean when he was clearly too exhausted to speak.

As it turned out, Dean underestimated the comfort of that headshake when, a couple miles later, Sam stopped responding at all.

“Hey!” Dean called to the demon, “Didn’t you pack a water bottle or something?”

Azazel turned his glowing eyes on Dean, “We have everything we need.”

Several miles later, the heat had progressed from uncomfortable to broiling. Dean had started panting, and Sam was drawing stuttering, uneven breaths. Then, without warning, he collapsed to his knees, bracing his arms just in time to avoid face planting in the dirt.

“Sam?” Dean dropped to his knees besides Sam, awkwardly holding one shoulder up with his bound hands, “Sammy!”

Sam just coughed, heaving up a thin stream of bile.

“Shit!” Dean pressed the back of his hands to Sam’s forehead. He was still sweating, but his skin was clammy. Heat exhaustion was settling in, and they weren’t far from heat stroke.

“ _Shit_ , Sam!” Dean shook his shoulder, hard, and Sam took a deep breath.

“M’fine . . . just . . . need . . . a moment.”

He drew several shuddering breaths and hung his head again.

Azazel walked back towards them and stared down at Sam, “Betcha wish you’d taken more than a few sips of water over the past couple days, don’t ya, tiger?”

Dean felt as if his insides were ripping apart again, “What are you talking about?”

“He insisted you needed it all,” Azazel’s eyes gleamed, “Would hardly take any for himself.”

“That food was for both of us?” Dean looked back at Sam, “What the fuck were you thinking!”

Sam closed his eyes, chest heaving, “He won’t . . .  let me . . . starve . . .”

“No, he’ll just leave you to shrivel up in the desert. You fucking _moron_ Sam!”

“Break’s over,” Azazel said, “I suggest you both keep walking. Neither of you wants to find out what happens if you stop.”

With a last, rattling breath, Sam forced himself to his knees and made a pitiful attempt to push himself off the ground.

“Sam, we need to be smart,” Dean said, “Neither of us is gonna make it solo, so this is what we’re gonna do. I’m gonna use your shoulder to push myself up. Then I’m gonna pull you up and you’re going to wrap your arm around my shoulder. You understand?” Sam nodded. “Good,” Dean pulled himself up, swaying a little once he got to his feet. Despite Sam’s stupidly selfish sacrifice, Dean was still running near empty. Looking across the unforgiving desert, he couldn’t stop the traitorous admission that they wouldn’t make it.

He shook himself. He couldn’t think like that, so instead he bent down and pulled Sam up the best he could with his shackled hands. Sam flopped an arm across his shoulders, and they set off again.

They made it a few more miles, long enough for the sun to pass midday and begin its slow descent to the horizone when Sam’s legs gave out completely, sending them both to the ground.

“Sam! Sammy!” Dean shook him, but Sam didn’t respond, didn’t move. Dean pressed his hand to Sam’s throat and cursed at the faint, rapid pulse he found there.

“Your fucking general won’t be any use to you dead!” he bellowed. Azazel turned and grinned.

“Fair point,” he said. He walked back to them, drew a short, wicked dagger, and seized one of Sam’s limp arms.

“The fuck are you doing?” Dean pulled Sam’s arm away.

“I told you I brought everything we need. Sam turned down water for blood, so I’m using his blood for water.”

The words made no sense, not to Dean’s cramped stomach, burnt skin, and raging migraine, “You’re taking his blood?”

“And turning it to water. It’s not just Jesus that can pull the cheap tricks.”

“If blood’s all you need, then take mine,” Dean stuck out his bound hands.

“Ready to bleed for a hybrid, eh? What would your Daddy say?”

“Does it matter?”

“Guess not,” Azazel agreed and slid the knife down Dean’s forearm, drew a small, metal bowl from nowhere, and held it under the wound. Dean bit back a wince as Azazel squeezed his arm, and the blood spilled faster. When the bowl was half-full, he pulled it away, said a few words from a language Dean didn’t recognize, swished the liquid around a couple times, and handed it back to Dean. “Would you like to do the honors?”

Dean took the bowl and, sure enough, the liquid was now thin and clear. For one, insane, second, Dean almost threw the entire thing out, because he was about to feed Sam his blood and what if Azazel had just turned it to poison?

Except Sam wasn’t going to last another mile without something, and even then, Dean doubted how much this little bowl of water would do. He could only carefully set the bowl to the side and shake Sam awake.

“Naptime’s over Sammy, I’ve got something for ya.” After a little cajoling, Sam became alert enough to let Dean guide him to a sitting position and press the bowl into his hands.

“How . . .”

“Don’t ask, dude. Just drink.”

Sam obeyed, miraculously draining the bowl without spilling of the precious liquid and handing it back to Dean.

“You’re hurt,” he said, pointing to Dean’s arm.

“S’not bad.”

“It’ll get bad if you don’t wrap it. Come here.” Sam began tearing weakly at the bottom of his t-shirt.

“Here, Sam. I can supply my own bandage. No offense, but your shirt’s disgusting.” Sam gave him half a smile at that and managed to bandage Dean’s arm with only slightly trembling hands.

“Break’s over,” Azazel said and began walking.

“You ready?” Dean asked.

Sam nodded, and Dean pushed himself up then helped Sam to his feet. Sam wrapped his arm back around Dean’s shoulders, although he already seemed more alert, much more alert than a few sips of water should be able to do for a starving man that had been walking through the desert for the past seven hours. There was nothing Dean could do about it, though, and he felt a perverted sense of pride that his blood had helped Sam that much.

“Look at us,” Sam gasped, gesturing at their staggering four-step several miles later. Although the water had helped far more than it should have, Sam was still desperately weak. Dean’s own lack of food, water, and rest, combined with his minor blood loss, meant that he had eventually found himself leaning on Sam as much as Sam relied on him.

“I know,” Dean said, “Hell’s heir-apparent and the legendary hunter Dean Winchester. What a sorry sight.”

“Seriously though. What . . . the fuck . . . are we gonna do?”

Dean had no answer, despite having nothing to do but think during his long hours of solitude in the house and their endless trek.

“We’ll figure it out,” he said at last, “You and me. This isn’t how this ends.”

“I’m sorry. I know you wanted me to let him kill you . . . I just couldn’t . . .”

“I get it,” Dean said, “Hell, if he was threatening you, I would’ve done the same thing.”

“You . . . you would have?”

Dean glanced at Sam and frowned at the childlike awe in his eyes, “Course I would, Sammy. You’re all I’ve got.”

 

There wasn’t much energy left for speaking after that, even when the sun eventually set, taking the heat with it until Dean’s shirt clung to his clammy skin and Sam began trembling for a whole new reason. It well after dark when Azazel finally stopped just outside a decrepit iron fence surrounding a small oasis worn tombstones and tired trees, “The last bit you’re gonna do on your own, Sammy.” He pulled Sam away, nearly sending both him and Dean to the ground, “Right in the center of that cemetery is a big crypt. I need you to open it for me.”

“Can’t you . . .”

“It’s all about the journey, remember? Now, to open the crypt, you’ll need a key.” Azazel pulled a horribly familiar gun out of his pocket, a gun Dean hadn't seen since a semi-truck rammed into the Impala and John Winchester exchanged it--and his soul--for Dean's life.

Dean had never imagined he'd see that gun again. 

“Sam!” Dean shouted, “Take it!” Sam staggered forward, making a clumsy grab for the weapon.

“Sure kid. Have it.” In one, swift movement, Azazel shoved the Colt in Sam’s hands, pulled Dean to him, and pressed the dagger to his throat.

“That’s a very special gun you’ve got there, Sam,” Azazel said, “It’s the only thing in the entire universe that can kill me, and there’s one bullet left.”

Sam gripped the gun awkwardly and pointed in in Azazel’s direction.

“You always were smart,” Azazel said, “So if you think your half-dead body can aim that well enough to kill me without hitting Dean-o,” he brushed the dagger along Dean’s throat, “Then go ahead. Otherwise, I suggest you don’t keep me waiting.”

Sam didn’t hesitate, just lowered the gun, turned, and set off toward the crypt without meeting Dean’s eyes.

 

“He’s never going to join you,” Dean said as Sam disappeared into the darkness.

“That so?”

“That’s right. He never will, not after everything you’ve put him through.”

Azazel laughed, “So sure of him, are you? Who was it that controlled where he went, what he ate, what he did? Who ensured that when I handed Sam that gun, he wouldn’t have a single solitary idea what to do with it? You could’ve made that shot half-blind and bleeding from your chest.”

Dean couldn’t bring himself to answer, and Azazel laughed again.

“But don’t you worry, Dean. Sammy will come to me soon enough. Hell’s not filled with sinners so much as it is with desperate saints. And Sam, Sam knows a thing or two about desperation, about losing everything that matters to cave-ins, or fires, or black dogs. He won’t let it happen again, not if he can do something about it.”

“You . . ." Dean could barely speak as hot rage filled his veins, "You killed all those people. Everyone he ever cared about. Everyone he ever loved!”

“Cost of doing business, I’m afraid." Dean opened his mouth again, but stopped as Azazel pressed the dagger closer to his throat, "Now, hush, Dean. Your friend Bobby’s finally arrived. It’s time for our entrance.”

The next moment, there were standing in the middle of a grove of trees and tombstones. Sam was on his knees in front of a large, stone and iron crypt with his hands on his head and the Colt at his feet. Bobby and Ellen _(how the hell was Ellen here?)_ were approaching him from either side, guns trained at his chest.

“Now, you have ten seconds to tell me where Dean is before I decorate that wall with your guts,” Bobby snarled.

“Bobby!” Dean shouted, even though he knew this is what the demon wanted, but it was _Sam_ , “No!”

Bobby spun around, pointing his gun at the demon. Ellen kept her weapon on Sam as she glanced over her shoulder. Her eyes widened at the sight of the blade against Dean’s throat.

“You should probably listen to Sammy,” Azazel said, “He has some rather specific instructions to make sure Dean’s neck stays where it belongs. Now, how about you two drop your weapons and back away?”

“Now watch closely, Dean,” Azazel murmured as Bobby and Ellen obeyed, “Watch how far Sammy’s willing to go to save his big brother.”

_No. It can’t be._ “What the fuck are you talking about?” Dean managed.

“Really Dean? I knew Sam’s eggs were too scrambled to put it together, but I thought you must have figured it out by now.” He pushed Dean forward, inching him towards Sam.

“Seth’s dead. You killed him!”

“It’s amazing, what lies a child will believe if he hears them often enough, especially if his father mixes the lies with a spell or two, just because he couldn’t bear to hear the name of the child he abandoned.”

“No,” Dean tried uselessly to dig his feet in the ground, because he couldn’t see _._ He couldn’t bear to see Sam’s face. It couldn’t be.

“I’m getting impatient, Sam,” Azazel called.

“Come on, Dean-o,” he whispered as Sam stood and picked up the Colt, “You’re saying the thought never crossed your mind? Not once?”

Sam turned to the crypt.

“Not once did you wonder how a pair of black dogs just happened to drag a hybrid into your life that was your brother’s age, who had a lover that burned, whose visions showed the people and places you loved. Did you never check which factory Sam came from, even on a hunch? Did you seriously think that I would let a child that special die from a little smoke?”

Sam pushed the Colt into the crypt’s seal. The entire thing began to spin, faster and faster. Something began to pound against the metal doors, something ancient and evil, and Sam was right in its path.

“Sammy!”

Sam, with his barcode and collar and life of unspeakable horror turned and stared, wide-eyed at him.

“Say goodbye to your brother, Dean.” Azazel plunged the dagger down.

White-hot pain surged through Dean’s chest. There was a rush of wind and a terrible scream and then—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoops...


	13. Deal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam can't do anything.

Sam watched the crypt's seal spin and spin, heard the wrath of hell fighting to break down the door. Something was coming. Something was coming for them all, and Sam had let it out. Sam had let it happen. Oh God . . .

“Sammy!”

Sam turned. Maybe Dean knew something. Maybe he had a clue of how to stop this.

Except Dean’s eyes were as wide and desperate and his own, in painful contrast to Azazel's grin. His grin widened as he met Sam's eyes. Then he moved the dagger from Dean’s throat.

For half a second, Sam thought Azazel was letting Dean go, but then his hand kept moving, down, down, down until the dagger was sticking from Dean’s heart.

_“NO!”_ Sam roared as Dean slid to the ground. He turned and pulled the gun out of the crypt, aiming it at Azazel’s chest.

Sam Winchester might not know how to use this magic gun, but he was a fucking psychic, and if Azazel wanted him to tap into his powers, then he _fucking would_.

There was a crack and the gun jerked back. Sam watched the bullet hit Azazel's chest at the exactly where the knife had pierced Dean’s heart. The demon gasped; his horrible grin finally wiped off his face. Then he fell, sparks crackling from the wound and across his chest as he went. He didn’t matter though, not any more. What mattered was Sam running to Dean, throwing the gun and the knife away, pressing Dean to his chest, and sobbing into his shoulder. What mattered was letting Dean’s blood seep into Sam’s clothes, feeling the heat drain from his heart and never, ever letting go.

Hell was spilling from the crypt, Sam felt it buffet his body, letting God’s greatest nightmares out to reign havoc on an already corrupted world, but that didn’t matter either. What mattered was sobbing an endless litany of apologies because Sam had fucked up. Sam had fucked up, over and over, and now Dean was dead. He was as dead as B and Maria and Jess, and it was Sam’s fault. It was always his fault. 

He felt Bobby and the new woman rush forward to close the crypt. Sam knew he should help, but that meant leaving Dean which wasn’t an option, so instead he stayed and held Dean’s body and wished to God the demon had killed him instead.

Sam barely noticed when the wind died, when the howls of hell fell silent. He would have stayed there, rocking Dean’s body forever if a soft voice hadn’t whispered, “Sammy.”

Sam looked up and saw a glowing, translucent man kneeling in front of him. The man had weathered features, a dark beard, and was dressed in shirts and flannels exactly like Dean's. This was Dean’s father: the man Sam had watched sell his soul for Dean’s life.

Dean’s father reached out and ran an insubstantial hand through Dean’s hair. Glowing tears streamed down his cheeks, and he bowed his head. Sam knew he should say something, should apologize for killing this man’s son, but the words didn’t exist.

When Dean’s father looked up again, Sam expected fury, expected the man to claw his heart out like a vengeful spirit, because that’s what he deserved. Instead, Dean’s father reached his hand up, as if to touch Sam too before pulling away at the last moment.

“I’m so sorry, Sammy,” Dean’s father whispered. For some reason, his tears started falling more earnestly.

“John.”

Dean’s father turned at the sound of Bobby’s voice and nodded slightly at the old man.

“It’s time for you to go, John.”

John looked back down at Sam, then at Dean.

“Don’t worry,” Bobby said, “I’ll take care of him. I promise.”

John nodded, brushed Dean’s hair one last time, gave Sam a small, indecipherable smile before transforming into a glowing stream of light that floated higher and higher before disappearing into the darkness.

 

Bobby eventually tugged Dean out of Sam’s grip , carried him to his truck, and laid him in the back seat. Sam followed. He didn’t know what else to do.

“Get in,” Bobby said without looking at Sam, “Make sure he don’t slip off the seat.” Sam obeyed, and after a moment’s hesitation, he lifted Dean’s head and torso up and sat down, settling Dean’s body across his lap and pulling him close again.

“Bobby,” the woman grabbed the driver’s side door before Bobby could close it, “Where you headed? I’ll come . . .” she glanced briefly at Dean before forcing her eyes back to Bobby, “I can help.”

“No. You burn that bastard’s body. Then go find Jo and start figuring out how to deal with what we let loose. I’ll call you once I . . . once I’ve taken care of everything.”

“Bobby . . .”

“Just GO!”

The woman stepped back with a sigh, “You want me to take him at least,” she nodded at Sam, who pulled Dean closer to his chest.

He felt Bobby’s eyes flick over him briefly through the rear-view mirror, “No. I’ll want to talk to him. Figure out what happened.”

“Well, then let me know if there’s anything I can do. And take care of yourself, Bobby.”

“You too, Ellen,” Bobby said without looking at her.

* * *

They drove in silence for hours. Sam suspected Bobby was driving in random directions, but he didn’t care. The longer they drove, the longer before Bobby burned Dean’s body.

Even when they finally stopped at an abandoned house on the side of a dirt road, Bobby didn’t give any sign of preparing a pyre. He just laid Dean on a relatively sturdy kitchen table, pulled out a half-full bottle of liquor, and leaned against the wall, staring at Dean. Sam sat against the opposite wall. The room was spinning too much for him to stand.

Time passed. Sam still sucked at figuring out how much, and he didn’t really care. He and Bobby just kept silent vigil without looking at each other, without caring the other existed.

Eventually, Bobby put down the liquor bottle and walked outside. Sam assumed he was going to finally build that pyre. Knew he should offer to help since he probably belonged to Bobby now. He didn’t move.

It wasn’t long before Bobby returned and, to Sam’s surprise, walked towards him. It made more sense when Sam saw the length of thick rope in his hands.

“Sir, I won’t cause trouble, I swear.”

“Probably not,” Bobby admitted, “But I’m not taking chances. Not today.”

The kitchen cupboards were all gutted, so Bobby tied Sam’s hands to a thick pipe beneath the sink.

“I won’t be long,” he said as he tightened the final knot, and Sam knew, then, what Bobby was about to do. Perhaps because it was the same thing Sam would do if he could. If he knew how. If a hybrid’s soul wasn’t already marked for hell.

But he should try. He should try because Bobby didn’t deserve death or hell anymore than Dean did.

“Sir,” he whispered as Bobby stood. He paused and looked impatiently down at Sam.

Sam took a risk and looked Bobby in the eye, “Let me try first.”

Bobby’s eyes widened briefly before his face settled back into a frown, “You’re already theirs.”

“I’d let them take me immediately, like Master Dean’s father. They’ll want,” Sam took a breath, “They’ll want revenge on the thing that killed their king.”  

Bobby considered him for a moment, his hand twitching towards his pocket, as if to pull a knife to cut him loose. Then it relaxed back to his side.

“This ain’t your fight, son," And he left without another word.

Sam watched him go, blinking back tears as yet another person walked to their death instead of him. When he heard the truck’s engine ignite and its wheels turn onto the dirt road, Sam leaned his head against the side of the sink, tried to ignore his burning wrists, and waited.

* * *

Dean opened his eyes, heart pounding from some already-forgotten nightmare, and sat up.

The half-light of either dawn or dusk fell through broken windows, illuminating the small living area of some abandoned house. He slid off the kitchen table he was laying on and looked around, rubbing the skin over his heart with a grimace. It hurt like a mother. At the same time, part of him thought it should be much worse.

At first glance, Dean thought he was alone, but as his eyes adjusted he saw . . .

“Dean,” Sam looked at him, a wide, relieved smile breaking across his face. Then Dean saw Sam’s bound hands and leapt off the table.

“Fuck, Sammy. You alright?” he said as he started working the knots.

“Of course,” Sam said, which was absolute bullshit considering Sam was tied to a pipe and _still_ in the clothes he had been taken in God knew how many days ago now, “How—how are you feeling?”

“I’m fine. Why?” Dean pulled the rope away and Sam lowered his hands to his lap. Then Dean saw the blood. It coated Sam’s shirt, his jeans, his hands, even parts of his hair. There was so much of it, way more than anyone could lose and still be alive . . . 

“Dean?” Sam's voice was quiet and scared, but Dean barely noticed. The memories were returning flashing across his vision like horrific photographs: the graveyard, Bobby and Ellen approaching Sam on his knees, Azazel revealing the truth about Sam, Sam opening the crypt, Azazel’s knife sinking into his flesh.

Dean pressed his hand to his heart again and felt a thick ribbon of scar.

Sam stared at the same spot, “Sir, I think Master Bobby sold his soul for you.”

 

Bobby arrived after Dean had finished ransacking the house looking for food or water for Sam--because his little brother _still_ hadn’t eaten, even though it was quickly growing dark, meaning it had been nearly twenty-fours since the graveyard. Since he died. Dean’s death seemed to have been the only thing keeping him conscious, because once he was back, Sam had quickly become listless and confused. Despite Dean’s repeated shouts and slaps, his eyes had slipped shut in something between sleep and unconsciousness.

That made it all too easy when a breathless Bobby entered the house for Dean to slam him against the wall, “What the _hell_ were you thinking?”

Bobby met his eyes, “I promised your Daddy I’d take care of you.”

“You knew! You _knew_ what it did to me when I learned what he’d done. How the fuck could you do that to me again?”

“And you can spend the rest of your life pissed at me, but I’ve been to too many funerals, and yours?” Bobby shook his head, “I couldn’t do it.”

The old man’s eyes were filling with tears, so Dean let him go and turned away, “We’ll finish this conversation later. Right now, we need to take care of Sam, since apparently you were too busy feeling sorry for yourself to get him a fucking water bottle.”

 

Bobby helped Dean carry Sam to the truck and got in the back with him, resting Sam’s head on his lap and trying to ignore his own dried blood on the seat.

“He’s alright,” Bobby said as Dean twisted his fingers through Sam’s greasy hair, “Just needs rest is all.”

Dean grunted. “Just drive.”

They drove in silence. Bobby didn’t even turn on his shitty country music, probably because he knew Dean hated it. Normally, Dean would have preferred it that way, but the silence gave him too much time to think.

“Where’s the demon?” he asked a few minutes down the road.

“Dead.”

“What!” Dean hissed, mindful of Sam, “And you didn’t think to lead with that?”

“I thought Sam would’ve told you. He’s the one who did it. Grabbed the Colt right after Azazel—right after it happened.”

“Sam couldn’t have made that shot.”

“I know. I’m pretty sure he didn’t shoot so much as force the bullet out with his mind. He was furious. He was downright terrifying.”

“So, your immediate instinct after Sam kills the demon we’ve been tracking for decades is to tie him to a pipe? That’s awesome.”

“Maybe not the best idea, but . . .”

“But what?”

Bobby looked away from the mirror, “Nothing.”

Dean grunted and pressed his hand to Sam’s red forehead. It was still dry and uncomfortably hot, “He almost died on our way there, Bobby.”

“What did he do to you two?”

“He just kept me tied up damsel in distress style for a couple days. Sam couldn’t tell me what Azazel was doing to him, but he didn’t eat or drink the entire time. Then he made us walk from the edge of an old railroad track to the graveyard, still without water.”

“It was a huge devil’s trap built from railroad lines by Samuel Colt.”

“That son of a bitch,” Dean muttered. He looked back down at Sam and smoothed away a lock of greasy hair, “He didn’t break, Bobby. Even after whatever that demon was doing to him. He didn’t break. He’s . . .” _my brother_ , “He’s damn good guy.”

“He sure is,” Bobby said, just loud enough for Dean to hear.

 

Bobby stopped at a gas station for a 24-pack of water bottles then McDonalds drive-through for a large orange juice and oatmeal for Sam (that was all Dean trusted he could eat), and half the menu for Dean, who, once he had become more accustomed to the flood of emotions filling his body, remembered that he hadn’t eaten much over the past few days either. Then, Bobby dropped them off a motel. Sam didn’t stir the entire ride, something that surprised (and worried) Dean, since he was usually such a light sleeper. It even took a couple of shakes to wake him, and Sam was only semi-conscious as Dean half-carried him into the hotel.

“Guess what, Sammy,” he said as he guided Sam into a chair, “We’ve got some food for you. Real food.”

Sam blinked at him, “Wha'?”

“Here,” Dean took the cup of orange juice from Bobby’s hands and stuck the straw in Sam’s mouth, “Orange juice, see?”

Sam sipped the cup, probably out of instinct, and his eyes flew open, “Holy shit.”

“It’s good, right?” Dean smiled and set the juice on the table, “But you should probably have water first.”

That woke Sam fully, “There’s water?”

“Here,” Bobby opened a water bottle and handed it to Dean. Sam hands still shook, so Dean took the straw from the juice and stuck it in the bottle.

“There you go.”

In the end, Sam drank a quarter of the water, a few more sips of juice, and had a couples bites of oatmeal. Bobby left about halfway through to get more food and clothes for them both. Ellen had found the Impala’s keys in Azazel’s pocket, news that sent a wave of relief through Dean, and even Sam muttered, “Oh thank, God.” She offered to drive it to Bobby’s, probably to have a chance to kick Bobby’s ass.

Once he ate, Sam dozed in the chair while Dean ran him a bath, careful to keep the water on the cool side of lukewarm because of Sam’s burnt arms, neck, and face, which he was gradually becoming aware enough to feel. He didn’t offer to help Sam bathe, although Sam likely needed it, but he did cut his clothes off. They were too stiff with dirt, sweat, and blood to bother saving, and Sam was too exhausted and shaky to remove them otherwise.

Dean had countless things he wanted to say to Sam _You’re my brother. I’m sorry. You’re my brother. Thank you. You’re my brother. I love you. You’re my brother. I fucked up. Dad fucked up. Please forgive me. You’re my brother. You’re my brother. You’re my brother._ Except Sam was so weak. It had been five days since Azazel took him, and all he’d had during that time was a few sips of water, plus the bowl of whatever Azazel had made from Dean’s blood. He hadn’t slept, and then he’d been marched twenty-five miles in the desert and tied to a pipe.

What Sam really needed was a hospital, but hospitals didn’t treat hybrids, and hybrid clinics only handled basic injuries and often suggested the owner “put it down” and collect the insurance money. Instead, all they had was a crappy motel, McDonalds, and grocery store first aid supplies.

Dean knocked on the bathroom door every few minutes to make sure Sam didn’t fall asleep and drown, but otherwise he left him alone until Bobby got back. He must have felt shitty about how he treated Sam, because he seemed to arrive with all of Walmart in his hands. There were clothes for both of them, yogurt, applesauce, bread, ramen, packs of Gatorade and water, aloe, Advil, and bandages.

“Think that’ll last us,” he said, setting the grocery bags down, “At least until we get back to Sioux Falls.”

“You’re a fucking miracle,” Dean said and enveloped Bobby in a long-overdue hug, “And I’m gonna get you out of this, I swear.”

“Don’t you fucking dare,” Bobby began as Dean pulled away.

“We’ll talk about it later,” Dean evaded, picking up a pack of underwear, some sweatpants, and a lose t-shirt for Sam. Bobby had bought human clothes for him too, not just Dean, which filled Dean with a relief he couldn't quite articulate. Bobby narrowed his eyes, but he just sank into a chair and opened a beer.

Sam managed to dress mostly on his own, drank some Gatorade, and, after a brief but intense debate, agreed to sleep in one of the beds. Then, Dean shed his own ruined clothes, showered, pulled on some sweats and a t-shirt, and sank onto the other bed. He fell asleep in seconds.

He woke sometime in the mid-afternoon and looked over at the other bed where Sam still slept.

“He woke up a few hours ago,” Bobby said from the table, “Gave him some water, some orange juice, and half a cup of yogurt before he fell right back asleep.”

“You should’ve woken me.”

“You needed rest almost as bad as he did. Besides,” Bobby glanced down at his laptop screen, “Gave me a chance to apologize to the kid.”

“Yeah well,” Dean got up and grabbed a cold cheeseburger from one of the McDonalds bags, “We both owe him a lot of those.”

“That’s for sure.” Bobby took a deep breath, “Dean. How much did you see come out of the crypt before . . .”

“Nothing. Just saw the door spinning. Why? What was in there?”

“Hell,” Bobby said, “Demons mostly, but a few souls too.” He hesitated, looking down at the laptop again, “Dean, one of them was your Daddy’s.”

Something strange flipped in Dean’s chest. Joy, overwhelming relief, but his fury with his father—for lying, for giving Sam away—still burned hot and powerful, “You mean he got out? You’re sure?”

“Absolutely. Appeared right by you and Sam for a little. Wanted to see you one last time, I suspect, and he,” Bobby cleared his throat, “He wanted to apologize to Sam.”

Dean’s head shot back over to Sam, curled under the covers with a small frown creasing his forehead, “You mean he told him?”

“You know?” Bobby shot back, “Since when?”

“Azazel told me. Literally the last thing he did before,” Dean made a plunging motion into his chest.

“Oh,” Bobby sagged into the chair, and Dean couldn’t figure out if Bobby was disappointed or relieved to not make the big reveal.

“Hold on, are you saying you _knew_ you tied by little brother to a kitchen sink.”

Bobby shook his head, “I was too far off the deep end to put it together. It wasn’t until we were all driving back that I realized, and even then, I wanted to make sure.”

“You’re saying you know for sure?”

“Short of taking a paternity test, which would raise all sorts of flags for the DSC. Here,” Bobby turned the laptop around and showed it to Dean, “Called in a few favors and was able to get a copy of Sam’s birth certificate. And . . . it’s always been Sam, Dean. I don’t know how or when your Dad started using Seth . . .”

“Spell,” Dean said, “According to Azazel at least.” He read the birth certificate. Then he read it again. And again.

**State of Kansas**

**Official Certificate of Birth**

Name of Child

_Samuel Winchester_

Sex            Date of Birth                 Local State or File Number

_Male         5/02/2024                      273_

Place of Birth                               City or Town            County

_Lawrence Memorial Hospital    Lawrence                Douglas_

Father’s Name

_John Winchester_

Father’s Birthplace            Father’s Date of Birth      Father’s Age

_Lawrence, Kansas                3/24/1995                         29_

Mother’s Maiden Name

_Mary Sandra Campbell_

Mother’s Birthplace                     Mother’s Date of Birth            Mother’s Age

_Kearney, Nebraska                         12/5/1995                            29_

 

 

And stamped across the entire certificate in large, red letters:

#  VOID

#  HYBRID 

Dean snapped the laptop shut, but the words VOID HYBRID still burned across his retinas.

“Oh God,” he held his face in his hands, “Sammy.”

“Dean?”

Dean turned and looked at Sam, who, unless he was unconscious or half dead, had never, ever been asleep when Dean wasn’t. Who was rising from the bed and staring at Dean, face wide and pale in shock, even beneath the sunburns.

Sam had heard every word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our big, dumb boys have finally all put it together :) 
> 
> Also, I've gotten a few comments over the course of the story asking about or speculating on the world-building of this fic, which I usually respond to with a couple paragraphs of background/meta. So I wanted to let everyone know that I love to answer these types of questions and especially to get your thoughts on what this world looks and feels like! Especially since I've thought through way more of this universe than will probably make it in the story.


	14. Revelation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean learns some important lessons. Sam finds a new normal.

_“What was it like? When Dean told you?”_

_“It was like . . . I think you humans say it was like winning the lottery. Everything had gone to shit, but then it all got better, better than better. At least for a moment.”_

_“A moment?”_

_“In my world, a moment’s a hell of a long time.”_

* * *

“I-I’m . . . and y-y-you’re,” Sam pointed a shaking finger at Dean, “That’s . . . holy fuck.”

“Sam,” Dean got up and sat on the edge of the bed, “I know. I know it’s crazy. And I swear I wanted to tell you as soon as I could, but you’ve been super out of it.”

“No, it’s okay,” Sam nodded, “I-I get it, but Dean. You’re my,” he half raised his arms before setting them back in his lap.

“You’re damn right I am,” Dean said, pulling Sam into a hug, “And I am so fucking sorry. For all of it. Everything you’ve been through. Everything _I’ve_ put you through. I’m just so fucking sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Sam nodded into his shoulder, “It’s okay. You were so good to me Dean. You are so good to me.”

“That’s just it. I wasn’t,” Dean said, “I pretended I was, but no human’s ever treated you right. I’m gonna change that, though, I swear.”

 

They stayed at the motel another week—Dean wanted Sam to get stronger and for his burns to start healing before moving, Bobby wanted to avoid Ellen’s wrath, and Sam didn’t seem to care where they were as long as Dean was close.

Sam slept a lot, the revelation of their relationship seeming to finally give him permission to sleep even when Dean didn’t. He woke every few hours to drink more water, juice, and Gatorade and eat more soft foods. Dean tried to get him to express his preferences—cherry or peach yogurt, ramen or oatmeal, saltines or bread—but Sam never answered, just said he’d have whatever Dean felt like, as if Dean would take it away if he chose wrong.

Bobby consistently excused himself, generally to handle things related to the army of demons they’d let loose. Dean couldn’t bring himself to care. Not when he had a malnourished, traumatized little brother to take care of and a demon deal to break.

There wasn’t much on demon deals in any of the official online lore. Most people agreed that anyone willing to deal with demons deserved what they got, so Dean ended up reading article after article of information he already knew, usually with a gratuitous helping of anti-hybrid propaganda.

_Anti-hybrid propaganda_ was a phrase he quickly picked up reading through Sympathizer websites, blogs, and message boards. He’d only ventured to that part of the internet once, when he was a teenager. It gave him the same thrill of excitement, of rebellion that stealing John’s porn had.

John caught him both times. The porn had earned him an eye-roll and five dollars to get his own. Discovering Dean on the Sympathizer website was the only time John hit him.

Then again, John was a dick who sold his son to the DSC.

However, figuring out Sam’s identity wasn’t the only thing that led Dean to the Sympathizer sites, it was learning what Azazel did to him after they were captured.

“He didn’t hurt me,” Sam said on their second day at the motel, “Not really.”

“Aside from starving you and not letting you sleep. Those are some of the most effective forms of torture.”

Sam shrugged, “I guess I’m used to it.” He ducked his head at Dean’s expression, “Sorry. I-I shouldn’t have said that.”

“No, Sam. Don’t apologize. It’s hard to hear, but that’s my problem, not yours.”

Sam nodded and leaned back against the pillows of the bed, staring at a water stain on the wall, “That’s what he did. Showed me what was happening to the others. Took me all over the country. All over the world, maybe. Showing me what humans are doing to us. Tried to convince me he would offer us something better.”

Dean knew better than to say it, but he couldn’t stop the relief that swept through him. Of course, that would have been horrific, but at least Sam hadn’t spent those days strapped to a rack.

Sam looked on the verge of tears, though, so Dean cleared his throat, “Wanna talk about it?”

Sam shook his head, “You wouldn’t understand. I know you think the rest of us deserve it. That you think I’m special because I wasn’t born this way. Because I’m your brother. But it’s not true. I swear. I’m no different than the rest of them.”

He didn’t say anything else for the rest of the day.

 

The next time Sam fell asleep, Dean pulled out his laptop and started Googling.

It only took a few variations of “Are hybrids evil?” “Are humans like hybrids?” and “Pro-Sympathizer Websites,” to find the corner of the internet he needed. Once he did, he felt as if he’d run into a typhoon of rage. There were articles detailing the stories of abused hybrids, often with pictures and videos. He watched a group of college kids torture a hybrid to death then mutilate her body. He saw pictures of hybrid children with hollow cheeks and sagging bellies staring up at him with large eyes. He saw hybrids shoved so tightly into semis they were standing on each other’s feet and had to get some air when he saw Walmart’s logo on the semi’s side.

There were stories about the factories. About women being impregnated and forced to give birth early, only to be impregnated again. There were stories of systemic torture and rape. Stories of R&D labs where mad scientists took hybrids apart layer by layer. Stories of three-year-old’s working in sweat shops, and Dean wasn’t sure how he could buy anything from anywhere ever again.

There were the stories about the DSC, and Dean finally began to understand Sam’s terror. He read about public executions of hybrids that tried to escape, torture chambers for hybrids suspected of “colluding with the supernatural,” illegal arrests of Sympathizers, even more illegal raids of their homes, and deliberate manipulation of the press to highlight stories of hybrid violence and diminish accounts of abuse.

Over and over again, Dean read about how these hybrids, these _people_ , were just like Sam.

“I buy hybrids from high-kill factories whenever I can,” SJW90 wrote in one group, “And I’ve taught every one of them how to read. They organized their own book group. This month they’re working on _The Scarlet Letter_.”

“Kerry cries about his lover, Don every night. Their owner lost Don in a bet.”

“I saw nine-year-old’s taking care of even younger children after working all day on an assembly line making plastic shit for humans. Don’t fucking tell me these children are heartless.”

“I think all those studies about how evil hybrids are were actually based on humans.”

On his third day of research, Dean found a Reddit Thread titled _Advice for New Sympathizers_. He read through some of the most recent conversations, which were full of information about other Sympathizer groups and communities, ways help hybrids, and how to convince other humans to join the cause. Dean’s fingers hovered over the keyboard, but he looked up at Sam curled on the bed with his familiar frown. His skin was finally beginning to peel, which made him look like a molting lizard. Dean could see the tattoo on his wrist. He looked back at the computer and started typing.

_Hunter who accidentally ended up with a hybrid. Trying to help him without getting the DSC on both our asses. Any ideas?_

Several people commented almost immediately, mostly to curse him, the DSC, and accuse him of being a spy.

Dean rolled his eyes.

_If I was with the DSC, I definitely wouldn’t pretend to be a hunter. The guy’s been through hell. Just trying to help._

The comments only got worse, and Dean nearly slammed his laptop shut when he finally saw a useful response.

_Former factory guard here. I get what you’re saying. You definitely need to be careful or the DSC will cart him off. Best thing is probably to give him to another Sympathizer._

Dean looked back up at Sam.

_Not an option. Any other ideas?_

_Is that him saying that, or you?_

“Sam.”

Sam looked up from his math workbook. Geek that he was, the second he was able to stay awake for longer than a few minutes, he spent as much time as possible studying. “Yeah?” He frowned, apparently noticing something in Dean’s expression. “What is it?”

“I was doing some reading,” Dean nodded at his laptop, “About hybrids. About the shit that really goes on.”

“Oh,” Dean couldn’t identify Sam’s expression, so he pressed forward.

“Sammy I’m sorry. For what happened to you. For believing all that shit.”

“Dean,” Sam sighed, “It’s not your fault.”

“Don’t. Just don’t. I gotta own what I did, and I gotta protect you.”

Sam closed his workbook and turned so he was fully facing Dean. “What do you mean?”

“It’s not safe with me. After what happened in Wyoming, the DSC is going to be coming down hard on everyone. You gotta get away from me.”

Sam didn’t say anything, so Dean pressed on, “There’s a town in Mississippi with lots of Sympathizers. Way under the radar. You’ll be . . .”

“Don’t I get a say?” Sam’s pressed his lips in a thin line and glared at Dean, “Before you ship me off to some stranger, don’t I get a say?”

“Isn’t this what you want?”

“How would you know what I want?” Sam stood, crossing the room until he was just inches away from Dean, “You fall over yourself to have me choose between yogurt and oatmeal, but you don’t think to ask me whether I should stay or leave?”

Dean also stood, voice rising, “You’re in danger!”

“When haven’t I been? Every day, for as long as I can remember, I’ve woken up wondering if I was going to die. _Every day_.”

“That’s my point! You won’t have to live like that anymore.”

“You’re not seriously stupid enough to think just because Azazel’s dead this is over for me? Whatever’s coming is coming for me too. Doesn’t matter if I’m with you or in Mississippi or in a DSC prison.”

“Sam!”

“No! You want me to leave because you can’t stand to think about what I am. What I’ve lived through.” Sam stuck his tattooed wrist in Dean’s face, “You can’t stand to be reminded every second that the man you worshiped sold his son into slavery and lied to you about it every day!”

“I CAN’T LOSE YOU!” Dean bellowed, slamming his fist onto the table. Sam jumped back, wrapping his arms around himself and staring at Dean’s fist.

Sam’s wide eyes drained the anger out of Dean, “I just can’t. I lost Mom. I lost Dad, and even though he . . .” he shook his head, “And now I might lose Bobby. I can’t. I just can’t lose you. Not if I could protect you.”

“You think I can lose you?” Sam’s eyes made their usual journey to the floor, “You think I can sit around with strangers knowing you’re out there alone, facing God-knows-what? When I just got you back? I can’t.” He looked back up at Dean, “I won’t.”

* * *

“Not bad,” Dean picked himself off the ground, grinning at Sam, “Wanna try again?”

“I-I hit you,” Sam stared at the spot where Dean had fallen.

It had been two months since Azazel. Since Dean died. Since Bobby’s deal. Two months driving around the country visiting all of Dean’s favorite bakeries, landmarks, and burger joints, spending days at a time working with Sam on his studies, and teaching him the basics of hunting. Not that Dean could ever bring Sam on a hunt, but if Sam was going to stay with him, he needed to know how to defend himself.

Dean hadn’t forgotten about Bobby’s deal, of course, and he spent at least a couple hours researching every night. But they had ten years. Ten long years before Bobby’s bill came due. And Dean hadn’t seen his brother or lived without the specter of Azazel hanging over every moment in over two decades. Sam had spent his entire life as a slave. They’d both earned some time off.

They were in a meadow in West Virginia now, enjoying the fading days of summer in a warm patch of soft grass, wildflowers, and sunlight surrounded by tall, dark trees. They’d bush wacked through three miles of forest to reach a spot secluded enough for Dean to teach Sam how to fight.

“Hitting me is the point,” Dean said, “Felt good, didn’t it?”

“Of course not.”

“There’s nothing like a good sparring match,” Dean’s grin broadened, “You’re doing great. Now let’s try it again.”

 

Dean also tried to teach Sam how to shoot a gun properly, with little success. It was becoming a regular disagreement.

“It’s not like I can die every time you need to use one of these so that you get mad enough to shoot with your mind,” he said, a couple weeks after leaving West Virginia. They were in Idaho for a week or so while Dean read through his latest collection of expensive books on demon lore and Sam worked to fund the purchase of said books. Bobby refused to let them stay with him whenever Dean was trying to find a way to break the deal, and plenty of people were clamoring for Sam’s labor.

“If anyone sees us, I’m dead,” Sam said, “Slowly. You’re probably dead too, for that matter. You know the DSC isn’t fucking around.”

Dean’s mouth tightened, and he glanced at the spot on the couch where Walt had sat two days before.

* * *

It was late. Dean had picked Sam up a little after dark from shingling Hal Taylor’s roof across town. The guy had an enormous house, meaning the job would earn them (not just Dean, _them_ ) nearly six thousand dollars, but shingling was difficult, tedious work, and Sam wanted nothing more than to collapse onto his cushion and sleep for the next twelve hours.

Except they were halfway through the first Magic Tree House book, which meant Sam had almost finished his first chapter book. He would gladly lose a little sleep for that.

Dean microwaved them both burritos (and how amazing was that, Dean making human food for him) and sat beside him at the kitchen table, encouraging or, less frequently, correcting Sam around bites of tortilla, meat, and cheese.

It was awesome. It was perfect. Then they heard the sharp knock on the door. The sound cracked through tiny house, loud and harsh like a whip. Only certain people knocked like that.

“DSC,” Sam muttered.

Dean nodded and stood, tossing the book and Sam’s plate unceremoniously into the trashcan. Sam pulled off his flannel shirt and handed it to Dean as the knocking came again.

“Hurry up you piece of shit!” Dean shouted, throwing Sam an apologetic glance as he tossed the flannel in his room and Sam hurried towards the door.

“Good evening, sir,” he said a little breathlessly to the agent's faded shoes.

“You kept me waiting," a familiar voice said. Sam flinched. It was Walt again.

“I’m sorry, sir,” it was easy to bow his head, slump his shoulders, and add the slight tremble to his voice. Sam probably would have even if they didn’t need to pretend Dean treated him like shit. No matter how many times Dean gently reminded him to meet his eyes, asked him what he wanted to eat, asked his opinion on where they should go next, it only took one glance at those shoes and the badge in Walt’s hand to feel just as he had when Dean had found him in that barn.

“Who is it?” Dean sounded annoyed and bored as he emerged from the bedroom, “Oh,” he said, “You.”

“Got a minute, Dean?”

“It’s almost ten-o-clock. Don’t you have anything better to do?”

“Do you?” Walt’s eyes flicked to Sam, who couldn’t stop his flush. They wanted Walt to think he was being treated like shit, but Sam didn’t want him thinking . . . that.

“What do you want, Walt?” Dean said coolly.

“I have information about the demon outbreak in Wyoming.”

“Fine. Sam, out of the way.”

Sam leapt to the side, and Walt entered. Sam wanted to meet Dean’s eyes to both offer and seek comfort, but he didn’t dare.

“Beer?” Dean asked as he and Walt sat.

“Please.”

Dean snapped his fingers, and Sam hurried to the kitchen, grabbed two beers from the fridge, and popped them open. He took several deep breaths before returning to the living room.

“Now,” Dean said as he and Walt both accepted their beers and Sam retreated to the wall, “What did you want to say to me?”

“I wanted to congratulate you, Dean. You rid the world of Azazel. You have the deepest thanks of the entire DSC.”

“Which is obviously why I did it,” Dean said drily.

Walt’s mouth twitched, “Unfortunately, according to our intelligence, at least 300 demons escaped the devil’s gate before you, Mr. Singer, and Ms. Harvelle closed it again.

Dean sipped his beer, “Any idea of their end game?”

“’Fraid not.”

“The ones Bobby and I have come across since seem pretty disorganized. Probably don’t know what to do without yellow-eyes.”

“True,” Walt nodded, “But you’d think there’d be some kind of structure, some second-in-command.”

“Right. Since when have demons worked together on anything? Not unless someone with serious juice could force them in line.”

“Our conclusion exactly, which is why we’re looking for a would-be successor, figure out what’s keeping them from their throne.”

Sam suddenly couldn't breath. They know. They know, and any moment now, a DSC SWAT team was going to crash through the door.

“You got any leads?” Dean said, as if he and Walt were discussing the weather.

“Perhaps. Our team found the corpses of several hybrids in Cold Oak, South Dakota. Do you know it?”

Sam bit his tongue as hard as he could to keep himself from screaming.

“Supposedly the most haunted town in the country, right?” and damn Dean was a good liar. Sam could almost pretend Dean didn’t know.

“Precisely. The hybrids seemed to have been killing each other, but there was also significant evidence of demonic activity.”

“So what, was it a demons verses hybrids scenario? Because I think I know who would win.”

“More of a gladiator match. Several of the hybrids we identified showed signs of psychic abilities. We think that rather than preparing an army, Azazel was looking for a Commander.”

Oh God. Oh God. Please, no. Sam closed his eyes against the image of himself, naked and screaming as a faceless DSC agent approached him with a knife.

_Dean won’t let that happen,_ he reminded himself.

_Dean won’t be able to do anything dead._

“I see. Any idea what hybrid we might be looking for?” Dean feigned nonchalance well, but Sam could tell he was beginning to get worried. He hoped Walt wasn’t noticing too.

“Unfortunately, not, which is the other reason I came. I was wondering if you observed anything useful while you were held captive by Azazel.”

For a long moment, Dean didn’t speak.

“Who told you about that?” he asked finally.

Walt gave him a slight smile, “We have our sources. These sources also say that Azazel stabbed you in the heart, and Bobby Singer sold his soul to bring you back.”

“Sounds like you have everything you need to know.”

“Not quite. We don’t know where that,” Walt nodded at Sam, “Was the whole time.”

Sam worked very hard to not throw up his burrito.

“With Bobby. We drove to Cold Oak together following the same demonic signs you did. That’s when Azazel grabbed me. Bobby worried it might snitch on us, so he kept it tied up in the trunk.”

“So, it wasn’t there when the gate was opened.”

“No.”

“And who opened it again?”

“Bobby. Azazel was using me as leverage.”

“And when Bobby was off making a deal with a demon,” Walt sneered, and Dean bristled, “What did he do with it?”

“Tied it to the kitchen sink in the house where he’d hid my body. I saw it right when I woke up.”

“So, it saw nothing of the events you described.”

“Nothing except me waking up from the dead. Took forever to calm it down after that.”

“I see, but throughout this period there were times when it was left alone, even if it was tied down.”

Dean shrugged, “I guess. You thinking what, a demon visited it and described its dastardly plan for shits and giggles?”

“Probably not,” Walt conceded, “But these are not the times to take chances. Would you mind if I questioned it?”

“Course not,” Dean said after half a beat.

Walt apparently didn’t need any other permission. In one, swift movement he stood, grabbed Sam by the arm, dragged him into the kitchen, and zip-tied him to a chair, “Just to be clear, demon shit. You’re sitting so that it’s more convenient for your master and me to punch your brains out. Understand?”

“Yes sir,” Sam whispered. Fifteen minutes ago, he was sitting in this chair, trailing his finger beneath the words of his book as Dean watched. Now Walt was here, and he was going to interrogate him because he knew, he _knew_ what Sam was. And it was going to _hurt_.

“Speak up!” Dean barked, and Sam met his eyes for half a moment. _It’s gonna be alright_ , they said, _I’m gonna take care of you._

“Yes sir."

“Now,” Walt lifted Sam’s head by the hair until Sam was staring into his cold blue eyes, “What were you doing when your masters were fighting Azazel?”

“I was waiting in Master Bobby’s car.”

Walt slammed his fist into Sam’s face. “And did anyone speak to you while your masters were gone?”

“No sir.”

Another punch, “Are you lying?”

“No sir.”

“Why should I believe you?” Walt emphasized the question with a blow to Sam’s chest.

“I have it scheduled to shingle a roof tomorrow,” Dean said casually, but his eyes were tense with fury.

“Of course,” Walt said. He pulled a Taser out of his pocket and pressed it to Sam’s thigh. Sam didn’t try to stop his scream. “Tell the truth!”

“I am. I am, sir. I swear, sir.”

“You sure?” Dean grabbed Sam’s chin and pulled it forward, “You sure, you piece of demon shit?”

Walt nodded approvingly, and Sam finally understood. Walt didn’t think Sam knew anything. He wanted to know if Dean would hurt him.

Sam fucking hated humans.

 

“How long was it?” Sam mumbled when Dean finally, finally cut him free.

“About fifteen minutes,” Dean said as he pressed an ice pack to Sam’s face, “Fuck Sammy, I’m so sorry.”

“S’okay.”

“It’s not okay. I hurt you.”

Sam knew that, of course. He felt it in the bruise darkening on his cheek and the lingering aches from where Dean had pressed Walt’s Taser to his chest once they both realized Walt wasn’t going to leave until Dean did more than shout.

“Not your fault,” Sam said as Dean guided him to the couch and laid his blanket over him, “You did your best.”

“My best wasn’t fucking good enough,” Dean said. Sam felt too tired to argue.  

 

“Skip work. I’ll call and say I need you to darn my socks,” Dean poured Sam an extra-large glass of orange juice and slapped a handful of Advil in front of him.

“I can’t.”

“Okay. I’ll drop you off late and say I was hungover.”

“Dean.”

“Or I’ll pick you up early, say I want you to make me a cake.”

“Dean.”

“Or, I’ll drop you of late _and_ pick you up early.”

“Dean!” Sam barely raised his voice, but Dean fell silent.

“You know Walt is watching to see if you do exactly that. I need to work today, and I need to have the same schedule as yesterday. Otherwise they’ll get suspicious.”

Dean just glared into his coffee, and Sam knew he’d (sort of) won.

 

When Dean picked him up that night, Sam collapsed in the backseat, feeling like a wet, worn out dishrag, barely remembering to pull the door shut after him.

“You alright?” Dean asked, glancing at him through the rear-view mirror.

Sam grunted something even he couldn’t decipher.

“We’ll get home soon,” Dean said as he started the ignition, “I’ve got a surprise for you.”

The surprise turned out to be a feast. Humans might technically call it dinner, but as Sam starred at the piles of fried chicken, potatoes, salad, and an enormous (if lopsided) chocolate cake, he couldn’t think of another word for it.

“I burnt some of the chicken,” Dean rubbed the back of his neck, “And the gravy’s pretty salty, and I’m sure what happened to the cake, but . . .”

“You made this . . . for me?” and Sam shouldn’t interrupt ( _Oh fuck how could he have just interrupted a human_ ) but there’s no way this could be for him. Was Brenda coming? ( _He really hoped Brenda wasn’t coming_.)

“Course I did, Sammy,” Dean said in the falsely jovial voice he always used when Sam got confused by things Dead considered normal, “You’re the one bringing home the bacon, after all.”

“I-I don’t know what to say,” Sam forced his face up to meet Dean’s eyes, “Thank you.”

Dean clapped him on the shoulder and opened his mouth, closed it, and put on his familiar false smile, “Don’t thank me until you’ve tried it. I might have accidentally poisoned us both.”

He hadn’t, of course. And burnt chicken, salty gravy, and lopsided cake or not, it was the best food Sam ever had. He ate until he couldn’t anymore (and it was so, so strange, the feeling of being _more_ than full.) Then Dean bullied him into the shower, complaining about his reeking pits in an obvious attempt to prevent him from doing the dishes. Unfortunately for Dean, Sam’s fifteen minute shower didn’t give Dean enough time to make a dent in the mountains of dishes piled around the kitchen.

“Here, let me,” Sam said, toeing a pile of plastic mixing bowls sitting on the floor.

“No way.”

“Seriously, Dean. I'm grateful, really, but you deserve a break.”

Dean let out a broken laugh, “ _I_ deserve a break. Who’s the one who pulled a ten-hour workday after getting the shit beaten out of him last night?”

“Dean . . .”

“No, Sam. I would hate myself if I sat on my ass watching Netflix while you cleaned up after my mess. Again.”

Dean deliberately turned away, plunging his hands back in the soapy water, “Now relax or sleep or do some geeky shit. Whatever you want.”

“Fine,” Sam dug in one of the kitchen drawers and pulled out a dishtowel, “I want to help.”

“ _Sam_.”

“We’re brothers, right? Isn’t the point that we help each other?” Dean glared at him, but Sam crossed his arms and jutted his chin, even if he technically stared past Dean rather than at him.

“You’re a real pain in the ass,” Dean said finally, turning back to the sink.

Sam picked up a wet plate from the drying rack and started rubbing it with the towel, “That’s what little brothers are for, right?”

Dean smiled at the disappearing suds, “That’s right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone for your patience waiting for this chapter. In turns out applying to grad school while working full-time is a bit time-consuming...shocking I know. 
> 
> But now that applications are (basically) done, I should be able to start posting my regularly again.

**Author's Note:**

> In general, I don't post until I've finished a story, but I'm 90,000 words in, which should buy me a lot of time. 
> 
> I also recognize this story's subject matter is very sensitive. I'm trying to do my homework, but if there are things I need to change, don't hesitate to let me know.


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